


The Last Horizon

by Eireann



Series: Shadow [5]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 29,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9553952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/pseuds/Eireann
Summary: Follow-up to 'Home for Christmas'.  The Romulans are finally launching their invasion, while at home Hoshi is still waiting...





	1. Reed

**Author's Note:**

> Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount. No infringement intended, no profit made.

* * *

“Enemy in sight,” said Captain Ramirez quietly.

A sound almost like a sigh ran around the _Intrepid_ ’s Bridge.  It could not be said that the tension increased, for it was already so great that it almost seemed to possess an existence in its own right, but every eye focussed with the utmost concentration on the first of the pinpricks to appear on the viewscreen, right now extended to maximum magnification.

The man seated at what had been the Engineering Station but was now the position of the First Officer, with his own newly-designed console ready in front of him, stared with a searing cold intensity at the screen.  A flick of the fingers swept the previous display on his console into oblivion, relegating it back to Tactical; replacing it, the schematic of the ship appeared.  The strings of readouts spooling down the side of the screen told him that everything was prepared, everyone was ready.

As ready as they could be, for the fight of their lives.

=/\=

Both sides had waited long enough; both sides wanted this over and done with.  The two fleets sprang forward towards each other on the word of command like unleashed fighting dogs.

As one of Starfleet’s most experienced Tactical Officers, Malcolm Reed had sat in on innumerable planning meetings preparing for this moment.  He’d done his share of trying to predict what form the Romulan attack might take and to formulate what responses the Allied fleet should make to each variant of the situation as it might develop.  He flattered himself that his advice – usually sound in such matters – had done something to influence the plans that had eventually been hammered out.  He was equally aware of legendary German strategist Helmuth von Moltke’s sage observation that ‘No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy’, and did not expect this occasion to be any exception.  The Romulans had already shown their deviousness by routing their advance through this backwater of space; it was as much luck as judgement that they’d been spotted while still at enough of a distance to allow the defensive fleet to muster in good order to meet them.

He’d been _Enterprise_ ’s Armoury Officer for so long that it still felt strange to glance to his left and see someone else sitting at the Tactical Station.  He had absolute confidence in now-Lieutenant Em Gomez, who sat there looking as though fear was something that happened to other people.  Her lovely eyes were fastened like those of a bivvering kestrel on the readouts in front of her, her fingers poised for the word of command.

He was glad he had Em with him.... 

The rest of his old comrades were dispersed through the Fleet, placed where they were thought able to do the most good; only Travis was still with their erstwhile Captain – now Admiral – Archer, aboard his flagship _Endeavour._ Malcolm was fully aware of exactly where each of their ships was deployed.  Trip was the only one missing, his skills being thought to be more valuable back at the shipyards where work was still frantically going on to replace or repair ships lost or damaged in earlier skirmishes.

_This was no skirmish._

He’d always had a problem with nerves waiting for the onset, though the long years of discipline enabled him to keep up an iron front.  As he’d come onto the Bridge half an hour ago, nobody would have known from looking at him that his stomach was tying itself in knots; now he no longer remembered he _had_ a stomach.  As the distance between the two fleets closed, the familiar ice-cold surge of adrenaline seized him.  Time slowed, and things became very clear and simple.

_Closer.  Closer.  Closer._

His mouth was dry, his heart racing.

For one split second, he allowed himself to remember the existence of the two squares of printed paper in his breast pocket.  Two photographs: one of his wife and son, the second (received only yesterday and piggybacked in on a technical upgrade) the latest image of his unborn daughter.  Then, with the brutal ease of long practice and absolute necessity, he wiped them out of his mind as though they had never been.

Captain Ramirez was as still as a stone statue in the command chair.

That was the last thing he remembered before hell enveloped them: the absolute stillness.

_“FIRE TORPEDOES!”_


	2. Reed

_“Fire!”_

Fire against the infinite darkness, blossoming where the missiles hit and escaping oxygen allowed the explosives to ignite.

Hulls or nacelles disintegrating in almost balletic slow motion as the first strikes went home, the orderly advance breaking instantly into a vast and deadly dance of ship against ship; too many couples to count or remember, diving and feinting and darting, spitting death.

_“Fire!”_

_Intrepid_ herself was taking hits.  The hull shook, but he was able to report to the captain that the shields were holding.  Em’s fingers darted across the board, and from the change in the vibration he knew that the phase cannons were blazing at the weak point another ship’s torpedo had opened up in the Warbird suddenly presenting its dorsal as it came around them in a tight parabola, briefly separating them from the ship they had been pursuing.  The naked struts of the superstructure visible where the hull plating had been torn away melted under the torrent of energy unleashed at quarters too close for the emergency shielding to absorb it fully, and a series of explosions ran through the vessel until its smooth arc disintegrated into a crazy corkscrew and seconds later it became a rapidly expanding cloud of individual pieces of metal, through some of which _Intrepid_ sailed, bodies looking like tiny disjointed dolls flung here and there among the bits that shattered against the plating. 

He felt nothing. The laser of his intent swung, refocussed.

_“Fire!”_

On their port side, the _Wellington_ exploded.  Something that was probably part of its starboard nacelle smashed against the underside of the rear port quarter of _Intrepid_ ’s saucer section as she tried to heel clear of the blast.

“Breach on C Deck, emergency bulkheads holding.”  As the ship’s SiC it was his duty to report this information to the captain even as he ordered repair teams to hurry to the site and assess casualties, but he knew that Ramirez was so focussed on the battle that the information would be no more than a piece of low-level background for the time being.  The junior officers in the area would post casualty reports as soon as they were available, but he suspected that in that area they would have taken at least some losses.

He felt nothing.

Helm compensated for the impact as much as possible, but the ship still lurched off course.  Other ships and stars reeled sickeningly across the viewscreen. Something that had been attached to a body struck the forward dorsal camera and floated away again, fingers perpetually extended in a frozen, lifeless wave.  It might be ‘ours’; it might be ‘theirs’. 

He felt nothing.

_“Fire!”_

The phase cannons spoke again.  His body transmitted the vibration of torpedoes blasting out of the tubes too, _probably the rearward_ , but Em cursed – not a hit; too much debris, not her fault.  He knew some of the words she was using, if not all of them.  If they survived this she’d probably get a reprimand.  Ramirez was very strait-laced about bad language, and spoke several languages fluently, including Spanish.

He felt nothing.

The Warbird they’d been pursuing had lost itself in the mêlée after destroying _Wellington.  Intrepid_ heeled onto a new course, selected a new enemy – a thing of which there was a terrifying superabundance.  The front tubes opened up.  Fire blossomed against the Romulan shields, creating a shimmer of radiance as all the energy was absorbed.  In return, the Warbird veered and delivered a cannonade of missiles that shattered against _Intrepid_ ’s hull as the two ships passed within less than a hundred metres of each other; at these speeds, that was practically scraping each other’s keel.

“Ventral hull plating down to seventy per cent.” 

Denise Le Saut at Helm responded to his words by rolling the ship, keeping that briefly vulnerable area away from further damage, but another enemy ship strafed it in passing.

“Fifty per cent.”  His voice was still calm.  “Casualty reports, seven dead so far, fifteen injured.  Medical teams attending.”

He felt nothing.

Ramirez nodded.  He was a compact man, very dignified, very precise, who had recently grown a small moustache and pointed beard that gave him a quirky resemblance to Charles II.  He sat in the captain’s chair now with the presence of a Portuguese fidalgo, and it would have taken a very close observer to perceive the gleam of aristocratic wrath that some Romulan _patife_ had the _descaramento_ to shoot at his ship.

“Continue to engage the enemy,” he ordered evenly.

Helm and Tactical complied.  The ship curvetted through space which boiled with individual conflicts that engaged and broke apart and re-engaged. The duranium fabric of her hummed and shook to the hell flaming out of all weapons ports as Em engaged multiple targets, _Christ I wouldn’t have taken on three at once_ , but the shots roared home and explosions flared against buckling metal, shields disintegrated and then _Intrepid_ ’s entire superstructure groaned as a last cannon blast from one of the smaller enemy ships took out the starboard impulse engine, flinging the vessel dizzily around in her own length.

Design improvements made since the days when any shock threw _Enterprise_ ’s crew around like rag dolls had included seat belts.  The _g_ -force of the spin pressed his body uncomfortably hard against these and the left tendon in his neck snapped painfully as his head was thrown violently to the side, but he was still in his chair.  If there had been time he might have remembered days when he’d have taken such discomforts without even noticing, but the flicker of _you’ll pay for that tomorrow_ was so absurd he very nearly laughed aloud; no-one in this battle was guaranteed another five minutes of life, let alone a tomorrow in which to notice one was older than one used to be and showing the wear and tear.

Too many bodies around the ship had not had the benefit of seat belts.  The figures spooled onto his screen and he reported them dispassionately – words lost in the furore of a war zone, words, words and numbers, casualties, statistics, _acceptable losses._

He felt nothing.

_“FIRE AT WILL!”_

Helm regained control.  The phase cannons roared again, adding a final blast to the disintegration of a huge enemy ship being targeted by two Vulcan _Suurok_ -class cruisers; too close to turn, _Intrepid_ ploughed through another expanding ball of blazing debris, much closer and more dangerous than the first.  A large chunk of this tore off a twenty-metre strip of the hull and the casualty list doubled. _Endeavour_ surged past, firing a full spread at a phalanx of Warbirds which had just arrived, probably reinforcements, _bloody hell, keep him safe!_ , and _Intrepid_ came about almost under _Exeter_ ’s nose as the larger ship raced up in support.

The instinct to protect the flagship was in blood and bone.  Outgunned and outmatched in every respect by her two far larger sisters, _Intrepid_ barrelled forward in their wake, her one remaining engine howling a war-cry and every weapons port on her hull red-hot with the intensity of fire.

Somewhat to his surprise, they survived for several minutes as the phalanx dissolved and engaged them.  Then another huge enemy battle-cruiser stormed in from the rear, heading directly for _Endeavour_ even as more of their own fleet rushed up in support.

 _Intrepid_ came up underneath the monster. 

_“Fire!”_

Explosion after explosion from the forward torpedo launchers roared uselessly against the shielding as the vast featureless expanse of metal passed across the viewscreen, _Bastards, why won’t you fucking bastards die,_ and then Captain Ramirez’s voice cut through the uproar as though he were seated at a picnic on a summer lawn and politely requesting that someone pass him the salmon and cucumber sandwiches.  “Helm, target the enemy’s impulse drive.”

Silence was an impossibility in that world of noise, but a silence nevertheless there was: a silence that seemed to go on for a very long time.  Time enough to remember the two images in his breast pocket, and to remember – of all strange things – the glass bowl on the dining room table at home.  It was a perfect, shining bubble, and on the morning of his leaving it had been full of Christmas roses Hoshi had picked in the garden.  How white the flowers had been, with their hearts of shining gold; how beautiful and pure and cold above the clear, faintly iridescent glass....

Then _Intrepid_ lunged forward as though kicked in the arse by a gigantic boot, and the glass disintegrated into a million tumbling shards.  One of the Christmas roses flew past him in the enveloping darkness and he threw out a hand to catch it, because Hoshi had touched it and therefore it was of incalculable value to him; but the edge of the white petal was as sharp as a blade and cut his palm, so that he cried out in shock and pain and loss as it slipped through his clutching fingers.

His voice made no sound at all.

And then the world went out.


	3. T'Pol

“They’re retreating.”

The ensign at the helm of the _K’Hatek_ was the first to voice what they had all been thinking, but he was too young to have learned proper discipline.  His forwardness earned him somewhat reproving stares from his senior officers, but the woman in the chair behind him merely nodded; Captain T'Pol had spent so many years among Humans that she hardly noticed his unseemly impetuosity.

“It appears so,” she observed, as the last few Romulan ships broke away and went to warp, vanishing in the direction from whence the vast assembly had materialized.  “But they may well simply be withdrawing in order to regroup and recommence hostilities.  Please rejoin the rest of our own fleet and take up whatever position we are allocated.”

The _D’Kyr_ -class ship turned obediently and began picking its way through what now resembled a giant asteroid field composed of spare parts.  Most of these were mechanical, but a generous proportion of them were biological in origin.  Here and there flames still burned, fed by atmosphere venting gradually through small fissures in the wreckage: votive candles to the god of destruction, who had surely received an offering beyond measure this day. 

Was he sated?  There was no saying.  T'Pol was not even sure yet how many minutes or hours or days had passed while the battle raged.

 _Endeavour_ was safe, she knew that much.  But the casualties were appalling.  By the most conservative estimate, at least half of the defense fleet was either destroyed or disabled.  Barely a quarter of what remained was intact, and the prospect of refueling and resupply was distant at best.  The expenditure in munitions had been colossal, and it was not at all impossible that if the battle was renewed and went on for the same length of time again, the coalition fleet would run out of ammunition before it ran out of ships.  Phase cannons could only do so much against ships as powerful as some of those the Romulans had built; even the sophisticated weapons of a _Suurok_ -class combat cruiser could hardly make an impression on them in a one-to-one conflict.

“Halt,” she ordered suddenly.

It was just another wreck, and a relatively small one at that; _Intrepid_ -class.  What had drawn her eyes to it, among so many?  Silent and still, it had been broken almost in half by the huge wedge-shaped nose of an Andorian battle cruiser that must have been driven into it from behind when it disintegrated – probably (given the extent of the damage) when its antimatter containment was breached by enemy fire.  Maybe the tail of her vision had been caught by the motionless saucer hull, its cutoff shape so reminiscent of _Enterprise_.

She remembered, for no reason at all, Commander Tucker’s delighted voice when he received the news of his old friend’s new assignment.  _“Hell, Malcolm, the design’s so close it’ll be just like old times for ya.  ‘Bout time you got your chance to step up!”_

A number of ships undoubtedly still had survivors aboard.  The officer monitoring Communications had already indicated he was receiving distress calls, but until the battle was over these would have to be ignored; it was imperative to reconstruct the fleet’s defensive formation as quickly as possible.  Still, as she gazed at the image on the viewscreen, its one remaining dorsal running light blinking forlornly at the rim of the buckled saucer and the black lettering of its registry just legible beneath the scorching and scars of battle, she told herself that experienced officers were an asset that Starfleet, and indeed the Coalition, could not afford to lose if it could be avoided.  “Take us in closer and scan for biosigns.” 

“Captain.”  Her Executive Officer voiced a measured protest.  “We should not delay in rejoining the fleet.”

“I am aware of that fact.”

Receiving no counter-orders, the helmsman brought _K’Hatek_ delicately through the debris that separated them from the Earth ship while the science officer manned the bio-scanners.

“The Andorian vessel was completely destroyed,” Sub-commander Heparth reported.  “There are no survivors.”

“And the Earth vessel?”

“Life support no longer operational through decks C to F. Three biosigns on G Deck, seven on B Deck, four on A Deck.

“Six on B Deck,” he amended after a moment, glancing at his display again.

T’Pol touched the comm panel on the arm of her chair.  “Transporter.  Please lock on to biosigns at the co-ordinates you will receive shortly and bring them aboard.  Have a medical team waiting.  Inform me as soon as the transfer is complete.”

 _“Yes, Captain.”_   The link closed.

The transfer was made with Vulcan efficiency.  Mere moments elapsed before the announcement came through that the thirteen Humans were now on board.

T’Pol nodded.  Thirteen was considered an unlucky number among Humans, but these survivors should consider themselves singularly fortunate, even though several of them were apparently seriously injured and the _K’Hatek_ ’s medical staff were already extremely busy with their own casualties.

Whether Lieutenant Commander Reed was among them was still to be established, but that was an issue to be deferred until opportunity offered.  A short distance away the coalition fleet was reassembling, and they should indeed waste no more time in rejoining it.  It seemed for the moment that the Romulans were delaying their return – if indeed they meant to return – but no weight could be placed on their remaining absent for long.  “Resume course for the rendezvous.  Advise _Endeavour_ of our status and request further instructions.”

Along the way they encountered a Tellarite ship that requested assistance.  The vessel did not appear to have sustained serious damage and repairs were already ongoing; it was likely that with the benefit of a little additional time and maybe help that might be spared from elsewhere, they might be completed soon enough for the cruiser to rejoin the fleet if and when battle recommenced.  Ships and allies, like experienced officers, were an asset of which the Coalition forces already had far too few, and the risk of taking this one under tow into relative safety would be negligible.  It still had warp power, and the hirsute captain was gruffly grateful enough to fall in with her instructions.

T’Pol gave the order to secure the Tellarite vessel with a tractor beam and then the two ships initiated a merged warp field and darted away to rejoin the fleet, leaving the battlefield at least for the present to the injured, the dying and the dead.


	4. Sato

Still no news.

High summer in England, and Hoshi was learning all over again exactly why the British weather was their conversational stock-in-trade.

High summer, and it was _raining._

‘Flaming June’, indeed.  Though May was hardly out, and maybe a few more weeks might see things improve.  Due to her advancing pregnancy she was usually warmer than was comfortable, but even with her additional little heat-source aboard it was feeling chilly in the house.  She eased herself into a comfortable armchair with a bulky cushion placed to provide additional support for her back, and wondered if it was worth putting the heating back on.  It wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford it, but the old building’s thick walls were an excellent insulator; within a few hours the place would become as hot as an oven, and then she’d have to open the doors and windows and she’d be back to Square One.

For once, she had the house to herself.  Charles had been taken for a walk by his Granny Mary and Grandpa Stuart, and he would probably spend the afternoon at the Reeds’ place, being returned washed and dressed in his pajamas just before bedtime.  It had already been suggested that he might stay overnight occasionally, sleeping in his father’s old bed, but she wasn’t quite ready to give permission for that yet, though she would have been hard put to it to state exactly why.  It was absurd to say that she felt as though he was some kind of ‘lucky charm’ she was reluctant to let out of her sight, but she was perfectly ready to admit to herself that as he was beginning to lose the rounded facial features of early childhood a resemblance was starting to appear that twisted a knife of love and fear in her breast every time she glimpsed it. 

The vid-link on the table beside her chirruped, and she keyed ‘accept incoming call’, though no Starfleet logo appeared on the monitor.

“Hoshi!” Japan was nine hours in advance of England; it was tea-time there, and several of the family had apparently been invited to share the evening meal, for it was a crowded table that appeared on the video feed.  The assorted cries of greeting were consequently so loud that she turned the volume down hurriedly, but then had to turn it up again as her mother and father commandeered the screen.

English was now her first language, but she had been reared in a naturally bilingual house and the ties of her ancestry were strong.  It felt natural and comforting to fall back into the rapid, colloquial speech of her own country and her own town, talking and laughing and promising to come on a long visit when the baby was born; after the war….

 _After the war._   After the war, after the war; everything boiled down to _after the war_.  How blithely they all spoke of it, the future _after the war_ , as though the Romulan invasion were a minor inconvenience that must be dealt with before normal service was resumed.

But definitely they would visit, _after the war_ ; maybe in the spring, when the cherry blossom made Kyoto’s Maruyama Park into a paradise.  For centuries the trees there had been cherished, their oceans of fragile pink and white flowers a testament to the renewal of life and hope.  After the conversation was ended she shut her eyes and imagined herself and Malcolm in the park, seated at one of the benches to eat beneath the laden branches, with a baby nestled in a sling at his chest and he and Charles making a competition of reaching up to catch the falling petals; laughing as the scraps of white lace slid between their snatching fingers, transient and insubstantial as happiness ….

Inside the mound of her abdomen, the baby squirmed.  Sherrie Jessa Sato-Reed kicked less than Charles had done at this stage, but she was an inveterate wriggler.  On several occasions Hoshi had taken recordings of the surface of her belly heaving and undulating as though she’d swallowed a bag of snakes, but each time she’d reviewed the footage and decided she didn’t want her husband put off for life.  So only occasional scan photographs and a verbal account accompanied tales and photographs of his son’s daily activities and made up the contents of a diary she recorded and transmitted to Starfleet for onward transmission when communications allowed – messages from home were important in keeping up morale, and though she knew better to expect anything in return ( _Intrepid_ was now on active service, and maintaining comms silence wherever possible to prevent unfriendly ears gaining information as to her position and movements), she felt that she was reaching out to her husband in the only way left to her.

It was nearly six months since he'd kissed her and left.  There was so much else she could have included in the messages: her need of him, her loneliness without him, her fear for him.  It had been simplicity itself for her to read that Trip had been withholding information in his last call to her.  As high in the ranks as he was, it was impossible not for him to have access to a great deal of information that was not released to the media. 

She was grateful – honestly grateful – that Trip made the effort to call her when he could; it was too easy to imagine that he was trying to cram thirty-six hours’ worth of work into every twenty-four right now.  Things between the two of them were still a mite awkward (though she hoped and believed Malcolm hadn’t noticed anything different when they met up), so it was extra credit to him that he still found the time to check up on her.  At a guess, he was keeping a promise extracted before _Intrepid_ left the solar system, though she thought he’d have done it anyway.  But she wondered whether he was even aware at all of just how much information he communicated without a single word being uttered.

War.

Sooner or later, the invasion would come.  Malcolm too had tried to keep the worst of his fears from her, but when they’d married she’d taken up the most testing linguistic trial of her life – decoding her husband’s often cryptic communication style, which nevertheless contained so much nonverbal subtext.  If the demands of Starfleet under threat of invasion by the Romulan Empire had been more moderate, she’d have been an expert in it by now; as it was, she pegged herself as ‘reasonably fluent’.  And however high the wall Malcolm tried to build around his inner thoughts and feelings, she knew that he lived in terror – not for himself, but for her and their children.

_Oh, Malcolm, where are you now?_

The baby had quieted down, and she ran a hand gently across the distended skin, feeling the bump beneath that was probably a heel or an elbow.

Sherrie Jessa.

The first name was obviously in honor of her husband’s dearly-loved aunt who had done so much to support them both in those terrible days after the return to Earth, when Malcolm was committed to what was essentially a mental home and she herself was struggling with new motherhood.

The second…. Now the second was more problematic.

Malcolm claimed that during the period of his ‘absence’ from _Enterprise_ he had been somehow ‘transported’ to another world, where he had lived for a time among a primitive tribe.  He had been taken under the wing of the tribe’s healer, a young woman named Jessa, and it had been thanks to her that he survived a ‘trial by ordeal’ with the tribe’s resident stallion, which they held in enormous reverence.

At first understandably skeptical as to whether this had actually happened or whether it was the extraordinarily detailed product of some form of hallucination, Hoshi had become convinced that it had actually happened.  (Phlox, too, believed that it had, and after detailed investigation apparently Starfleet had also accepted it as the probable truth.)  What sealed the deal for her, of course, was hearing him speak the language he had supposedly learned there.  As far as she knew, he spoke no languages fluently other than his own, though he had a smattering of rather disreputable Spanish from Em and had been heard to curse in several others when he thought nobody was listening.  But now he had quite a reasonable grasp of another – one that bore no relation to any she had ever heard.  As soon as she had absorbed the basics and run it through all the available linguistics databases she realized it was, indeed, unique; it was equally obvious to her that he did not speak it as well as a native would have done, struggling to reproduce a number of sounds that did not come easily to him.  But it was a distinct language with identifiable grammatical structure and logical verb forms, and he clearly both spoke and understood it, though he said that he had never met anyone who would teach him to write it – writing being apparently regarded as a quasi-magical art by ‘The People’.

Having come to believe in his visit to that mysterious world, she was naturally intensely interested in his adventures there.  But although Malcolm was always willing to talk about it, he probably didn’t realize she was perfectly well aware that whenever he did so she was receiving a carefully edited version.

During their talks on the subject, her husband would go into a wealth of detail about almost anyone in the village.  Had she been a skilled artist, Hoshi could practically have painted a portrait of Briai, the tribe’s chief, or of Atreh, his son.  Even relatively minor characters in the tapestry of the village were painted in with deft dabs of the brush; as a tactical officer, Malcolm had an eagle eye for detail.  But doubtless he fondly imagined that his failure to speak in anything other than the loosest, vaguest terms of the woman who had been his savior and constant companion disguised the fact that he had cared about her – and cared deeply.

Hoshi was a realist.  Malcolm was no monk, and for all his desperate attempts to tiptoe around every reference to his actual relationship with Jessa, he had been unable to completely conceal the fact that he knew she had been in love with him.  In the early months of his recovery back on Earth, however, it would have been foolishness to have pressed him for more information than he felt able to give voluntarily; and by the time he seemed to have come to some kind of terms with his ‘disappearance’ during the hunt for the Xindi, their own blossoming relationship had made her reluctant to raise the specter of his association with another woman.

The brutal truth was that Malcolm and Jessa had probably become lovers at some point.  But it was hard to be too self-righteous about that when she herself had turned to Trip Tucker for comfort, believing Malcolm to be dead.  During his account, he had said repeatedly (and, she believed, honestly) that he’d believed that _Enterprise_ and all the rest of his ‘real life’ was lost to him.  Was his ‘infidelity’ really any different – any worse –than her own?

So she’d reasoned, and on a logical plane it made sense.  However, logic – especially on the days when her hormones ran rampant – didn’t always save her from occasional surges of jealousy.  What had this unknown Jessa looked like?  Had she been some big-breasted beauty to haunt a man’s dreams?  Malcolm usually slept like the dead, but now and again he muttered in his sleep.  Even her trained linguist’s ear had never picked out a word of that other language, or anything to even suggest he might be thinking of that unknown Other Woman, but still on the bad days the ‘green-eyed monster’ gibbered over her shoulder.  Malcolm was hers now, body and soul, but by his own account he’d been returned here with as little volition as he’d had in his departure.

But if he’d had the chance to choose–?

The vid-link chimed again, making her jump almost out of her skin.  As she twitched around to stare at the monitor – for a moment she could hardly remember where she was – the familiar yellow arrowhead on a blue background flipped onto the screen.

Trip had called earlier.  He never called twice in one day; he didn’t have the time.

Her heart leaped into her mouth.  She put a hand protectively on her belly (the gesture had become habit with her now), feeling the baby jerk as though startled by the sound as well.

Her fingers were shaking so much she almost missed the ‘Accept’ key altogether.

“Hoshi?”  It _was_ Trip.  There were noises in the background: shouts and screams and whoops.  His haggard, weary face was printed with joy.  “Hoshi, they did it!  The Romulans!  They beat ‘em off!  We won!”

“Casualties?” She was happy, _of course_ she was happy, but the one word, the most important word, the _only_ word, jumped from between her lips.

The light in his eyes died, and she hated herself.  “It cost us.  We lost a hell of a lot of ships.”

“ _Intrepid_.”

He nodded miserably.  “She’s … she’s on the list.  Hoshi, I…”

“I know, Trip.”  She swallowed, fighting down the tears.  “He was always honest about the risks.”

“No, wait up a minute!” She saw the movement of his arm as though he went to grab her across subspace.  “Hoshi, don’t … look, don’t give up on him, right?  They’ll be goin’ through the wreckage, searchin’ for survivors.  And you know and I know, Malcolm’s a survivor.”

They were teetering on the edge of the crevasse of Look What Happened Last Time, and she couldn’t deal with it, not now.  But maybe this was the only possible time to deal with it, because so far neither of them had dealt with it at all, and nothing had been solved and nothing had healed, and their friendship was worth more than that.

“I know that.  Look, Trip, what hap– what we did, I’m through feeling guilty about it.  If we’d known he was still alive it wouldn’t have happened, but we _didn’t_ know, and that’s the end of it.  I knew you weren’t in love with me and you never would be, and I was … I just wanted to hold someone.  I don’t blame you and I don’t think Malcolm would either.”

“Did he know?” He looked so alarmed that Hoshi almost laughed, and then didn’t.  For all his rallying words, Trip had used the past tense.  In his heart he believed Malcolm was dead.

“The honest truth?  I’m not sure.” She stared out across the rain-washed garden.  The clouds were weeping for Malcolm, weeping, weeping… and what was she to say to Charles?  How long do you wait, hoping against hope, until there no longer is any hope?  “Once or twice, odd things he said … and you know, I don’t think he was faithful to me either.  Maybe he was trying to find some way to tell me that, and let me know he was okay about us.”  The tears so long denied were now spilling over.  “I’ve got to go, Trip.  Thank you, for letting me know.”

“Hoshi, listen, don’t … this hasn’t gone to the media yet.  Starfleet have got to put together the official announcement.”

“What do you think Aunt Sherrie’s going to do, phone the BBC to complain her nephew’s Listed As Missing?”  She caught herself too late; this was wickedly unjust to Trip, who could well have earned himself an official reprimand for giving her the news early.  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry….”

“It’s okay.”  His tone was gentle.  “‘Soon ‘s I hear anything, I’ll be in touch.  One way or the other.  They’ll be puttin’ together the casualty lists now, I’ve got contacts out there.  I’ll jackass my way all the way up to Jon if I have to.

“Now, you look after yourself and the baby, you hear? ‘Cause he cares about you, Hoshi, he cares about you and the kids more than anything in the world, and he’s gonna be comin’ back to you.”

“I will. ‘Bye, Trip.”

“See ya, Hoshi.”  The connection closed.

Feeling the bulk of her ever-increasing girth, she levered herself out of the chair and walked across to the window.  It looked out across the small orchard on this side.  From a branch of one of the stoutest trees hung a wooden swing that Malcolm had put together; she had swung on it that first day, squealing as he mischievously pushed her higher and higher, dislodging showers of petals from the blossom overhead.  It was motionless now, soaking wet and dripping, and this year’s petals had long since fallen into the grass and rotted away.  All of the trees stood in mournful silence, bowed under the steady rush of the rain.


	5. T'Pol

“Lieutenant Mayweather.  It is agreeable to see you again – and congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.  I’m just glad we got through _that_ mess in one piece.”

The two of them had met up by accident.  The captains of all the surviving ships were being ferried over for a personal debriefing with Fleet Admiral Archer; it could have been done just as easily over a comm link, but that was never Jonathan Archer’s way if it could be avoided.  The long flight home provided adequate time for the individual meet-ups, and Travis had concluded from things he’d overheard from captains after the visit that there was a lot of wisdom in the admiral’s strategy.  Each had been praised for his or her individual contribution to the battle, and went away proud that they’d been singled out for special notice; there was little doubt that Archer’s skills as a diplomat had improved vastly since the days when he’d allowed Porthos to pee on the Kreetassans’ holy trees and then bitched about the consequences. 

The demands of that diplomacy had obviously required that T’Pol, as captain of a relatively small vessel, had had to wait her turn behind captains who considered their larger ships entitled them to a preferential place in the queue.  Nevertheless Travis was quite sure that she’d get a royal welcome when she showed up at _Endeavour_ ’s conference suite, where the admiral was holding the official reception.

Being off duty he was free to fall into step beside her, which he did, gesturing the security guy escorting her that he’d take over from here.  As they walked he snatched glances at her, measuring how she’d changed since the days on board _Enterprise_ , which now seemed so much longer ago than they were.  Captaincy seemed to have settled her down some from the almost ‘jitteriness’ that had afflicted her by the end of the Xindi mission – if it weren’t _lèse_ _-majesté_ to describe a Vulcan as ‘jittery’.  She would have been other than mortal if she hadn’t been showing the wear of the past hours, but there was still a calm there; maybe a more fragile calm than that of the more senior Vulcan captains, but still holding.

“Guess they’ll be giving us another welcome home party,” he offered presently, grimacing.  “Last one was bad enough, after all the people we’d lost on the mission.  This time – hell.  Half the people who made it to the first one won’t be there for the second.  Just doesn’t seem fair, after what they went through.”  He heaved a sigh.  “Real shame about the _Intrepid_.”

“Captain Ramirez will be sorely missed,” T'Pol acknowledged with a nod.  “But if you are referring to Lieutenant Commander Reed and Lieutenant Gomez, they survived the destruction of their ship.”

 _“Really?”_ He was so astonished and overjoyed that he stopped in his tracks, and had to restrain himself from trying to hug her – a familiarity that he was quite sure would not be even close to appropriate.  “But I was watching the reports come in when we were searching for survivors.  Everyone aboard was listed as dead!”

If such a thing were possible, he would have sworn that the Vulcan looked slightly embarrassed.  “We passed the wreckage on our way to regroup with the battle fleet.  There were a small number of bio-signs; we could retrieve them with almost no loss of time.  It was merely logical to rescue them, though it was not until later that I was able to establish the identities of those we had been able to save.”

“And – the Admiral knows about this?”

T'Pol looked down at the deck plating.  “No,” she admitted.

Even protocol and his real respect for her couldn’t stop the words “What!  Why not?” bursting from him.  He couldn’t believe she’d taken it on herself to withhold information that would have given Archer so much sorely-needed joy; sure, the man was in charge of a fleet returning home triumphant, but a fleet leaving behind it so many great ships and fine men and women in the wreckage field that was Cheron.  The officers and crew of _Enterprise_ were especially dear to him, and although the ship itself had survived the battle (albeit with heavy damage that would probably end her days of service), many of her former crew had been lost forever.  Reed and Gomez had been heads of Tactical on the Alpha and Gamma Shifts, and as such the most senior officers of his old staff who would be listed as ‘missing, presumed dead’.  Though there could hardly have been time enough yet to fully acknowledge the loss, Travis knew that Archer would be grieving for those especially among the casualties of the battle.

T'Pol paused and looked across at him, and in that moment he knew why she’d kept silent.  “Because they were both very seriously injured – so much so that it is doubtful either of them will survive.  If the admiral knew they were alive, it would be his duty to notify Starfleet, who would in turn notify their loved ones – thus giving both him and them hope that may well be unjustified.  Until the situation becomes clearer, it is my judgement that it would be kinder to everyone concerned to say nothing.”

“You feel entitled to _make_ that kind of call, Ma’am?”  It probably wasn’t the most respectful question he could have asked, but he was too shocked and agitated to think how to phrase it any more tactfully.

“As the Commanding Officer of my ship, I _am_ ‘entitled to make that call’,” she replied, resuming her progress towards the conference suite.  “Starfleet regulations require me to submit reports on several subjects, but not all of them are required to be submitted immediately – should every ship in the fleet do so there would be chaos.  I am within my rights to withhold the full Search and Rescue Situation report for a limited time, though I have submitted the information to those in charge of the Search and Rescue operation that there were no survivors left on board _Intrepid_ and therefore neither time nor resources will be expended on examining the wreckage that could more profitably be directed elsewhere. 

“Nevertheless, I indicated that we had removed several individuals whose identities I would include in my SARSIT report, and until this is received and factored into the casualty lists then Starfleet will list all of the _Intrepid_ ’s crew as ‘unaccounted for’.  With all of the reports that must be submitted I would frankly be astonished if the final casualty lists were completed before we reach Earth again, so I do not believe I am inflicting any additional suffering on the families of the rest of the crew.  Commander Reed’s wife, however, is expecting their second child, and Admiral Archer would almost certainly feel himself obliged to contact her with the first news of him, particularly if it was positive.   For my part, I strongly suspect that her husband would prefer her to be spared any unnecessary stress, and although waiting for news is undoubtedly stressful in itself, giving her possibly false hope would be particularly cruel at this juncture.”

Vulcans were commonly believed to be incapable of lying, but Travis found himself thinking that didn’t include being incredibly devious when circumstances required it.  “The admiral will have to tell her _Intrepid_ was destroyed – of course she’ll think the worst!  You think believing he’s dead when he isn’t _isn’t_ going to stress her?”

“I am not proposing to withhold the information indefinitely, Lieutenant.  My medical officer believes that the situation should be resolved within the next forty-eight hours, one way or the other, and while there are ‘unspecified survivors’ then _Intrepid_ cannot and will not be listed in the reports he receives as ‘lost with all hands’. I strenuously doubt whether he will make any contact with loved ones before the situation is fully and indubitably established, but at the end of that time I shall advise the admiral of the outcome.

“Obviously, with such severe injuries, they may still not survive,” she continued imperturbably, “but at least if they are still alive by then their chances should be significantly improved.”

“And when Admiral Archer wants to know why you haven’t told him before?”

One eyebrow rose, in the way he knew so well.  “I shall tell him the truth, of course.  My logic is incontrovertible and my actions have not contravened any regulation whatsoever.”

By this time they’d reached their destination.

“You’re – you’re just not going to say _anything_ to him about Em and Malcolm?” Travis asked desperately as T'Pol reached for the access panel.

Her stare was blandly kind.  “I am going to tell him that survivors were brought aboard my ship after the battle but I have not yet had time to visit Sickbay, and that I will send in my reports when I have definite information.  All of which is the precise truth, Lieutenant, and given the circumstances I think he will understand my reasoning when he knows the whole.

“Complete forgiveness may, of course, take a little longer,” she went on with a wry and surprising smile.  “I appreciate your regard for the full and complete truth, Lieutenant, but when you acquire a ship of your own, you will doubtless discover that as you Humans put it, ‘there is a time and a place for everything’.”

With which she pressed the door control and entered, leaving him staring after her in astonishment.


	6. Hayes

News of the victory at Cheron came to Major Matthew Hayes as he and his team returned from cleaning up the last nest of occupying forces in the Taurus Settlement on Aldebaran Prime.

It had been a long, bitter and exhausting battle.  With the possibility of civilians being used as hostages, there could be no possibility of indiscriminate force being used once the support ships were chased away; the settlement had to be cleared out the hard way – which meant, of course, deploying the MACO contingent.

This was exactly what he and the other commanding officers had expected, and at least it had had the advantage in that this time they knew exactly where the enemy were to be found; unlike the search for the Xindi, they and their teams hadn’t had the wearing grind of waiting for developments while the Fleeters searched a gigantic haystack for a miniscule needle.

Matthew wasn’t the sort of guy who held back when his men went into action.  He’d gone into it with them, retaking the settlement street by street and building by building; the ‘Rommies’ were brave fighters who one and all refused to be taken alive.  Injured or disarmed, they used some kind of explosive self-destruct device – usually trying to take out as many of the enemy as possible in the process.  Fortunately, after the first couple bastards worked the trick, the MACOs wised up to it.  Supposed attempts to surrender were treated with the contempt they deserved, and after witnessing what had happened to the hapless inhabitants of Taurus when they’d been taken by the invading enemy, nobody shed too many briny tears over the necessity.

Exhausted as the MACOs were, however, when they were brought back on board the transport and given the good news there was wild jubilation.  Hayes certainly hadn’t been the only one to fear that their hard work might be only a temporary victory; the settlement had been captured and recaptured twice already, and the Rommies were clearly reluctant to leave hold of a planet whose mineral riches made up in considerable measure for its extremely inhospitable environment, bathed in the baleful orange glow of its parent star.  Now, however, it seemed that with the enemy beaten back in some style, there could at least be hope that their acquisitive interest in Aldebaran Prime might subside, at least for the foreseeable future.

The drinks flowed freely in the Mess Hall that evening, though provision was still made for keeping a careful watch in case any refugees from the battle might happen to head in this direction.  So far, however, all had been quiet, and Matthew had just decided to allow himself a single beer when McKenzie entered and headed in his direction.

As soon as he saw her face, he knew he wasn’t going to want to hear what she had to say.

“ _Intrepid_ was destroyed, sir,” she said bleakly, coming to a halt in front of him.  “They’re … saying she was taken out by another of our ships.”

He made his lips move.  “Blue on blue?”

“No, sir.”  She hurried on, glad to be able to spare him that at least.  “A freak accident – the other ship exploded and plowed into _Intrepid_ from the rear.”

These things happen in a battle, these awful, pointless tragedies.  He’d witnessed them firsthand, and knew exactly how little there often is that can be done to avert them or to salvage anything from the ruins afterwards.  “ _Intrepid_ exploded too?”

“No, I don’t think so.  Got lucky there, considering – maybe the nacelles were on lockdown or something.”  That wasn’t something a ‘shark’ would know much about, but it stood to reason a pitched battle wouldn’t be fought at warp.  Nevertheless all the components for catastrophe were still there, the antimatter and the warp core and the oxygen, and with two ships colliding with such violence it was probably close to a miracle that no second explosion had occurred and reduced both of them to flinders.

But – _destroyed_ …  Matt put down his beer very carefully, because it would have afforded him enormous and utterly pointless satisfaction to have hurled it across the room and watched it shatter against the opposite wall.  Suddenly the taste of victory was ashes in his mouth.

McKenzie was watching him sympathetically.  Something of what he felt must have shown in his face, for she put a hand on his arm.  “If you want to leave early, Boss, I’ll tell the guys you weren’t feeling so good.”

“No.  Thanks, but no.  And – don’t tell anyone else about this.  At least till tomorrow.”  In an ideal world his personal life would have been his own business and nobody else’s, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that his relationship with Em Gomez was – _had been_ – perfectly well known to his team.  He felt that he could manage to put up enough of a front to pass muster in the joyous celebrations to come, and he didn’t want the news of his private and tragic loss to cast a damper on them.  A couple more hours – just a couple more, and he could retire to his room and let the mask fall off.

War was wasteful and indiscriminate, taking the young and beautiful as well as the old and worn.  For many families, on Earth and on the other worlds of the Coalition, freedom had been bought at a high price this day.  _‘They shall not grow old, as we who are left grow old…’_ The words from history echoed in his head, suddenly unbearably poignant, so that he blinked hard and took another gulp of his beer to help him get a grip on his grief, keep it under control and smile back at the smiling faces around him when all he wanted to do was howl and curse with the intensity of the pain.

“She should’a been a MACO.”  And with that terse encomium, McKenzie released his arm and walked away.

_Em._ Those flashing eyes, that magnificent figure that matched the spirit inside it.  Her courage, her loyalty, her inner strength; her subtle wit and sparkling humor, even her temper that was as unpredictable as the squirt of a grapefruit.  Her self-appointment as her boss’s own personal guardian angel, marshaling both him and Hoshi into eventual wedded bliss like a mother duck chivvying two obstreperous ducklings.  Her obstinacy, her quirkiness, her cool expertise with weapons and explosive inability to handle chopsticks when they’d had Chinese takeouts…

_Think of something else.  For Christ’s sake think of something else, something, anything…._

There had been a time when he’d been envious of Reed, without even understanding why at first.  Back on _Enterprise_ , even from the start it had been obvious in what affection and respect Em had held her senior officer.  Her grieving at his ‘loss’ had been all the more heart-rending for being so sternly repressed; if Matt had cherished any hope that she might sooner or later turn to him for comfort, it had been a vain one.  Em might share her joys, but she never shared her sorrows – at least, not then.  The warmest reaction he’d gotten from her had been a glare for the bane of her boss’s final weeks of life.

War had come all too soon after the Xindi mission, and war is no respecter of fledgling relationships.  She had her duty and he had his.  He’d taken what comfort he could from the fact that she was serving with the man she still called her _Patrón_ , and had hoped against hope that somehow both of them would make it through the battle that was surely coming.  Although his own relationship with the Brit in the brief time they’d served together aboard _Enterprise_ had had in it the seeds of a conflict that never had time to flower, he respected the man’s ability and trusted him to keep Em safe, if it could humanly be achieved.

_Man proposes, God disposes…_ Not that he believed in God, not really, but the old saying kind of summed up the situation. _Intrepid_ hadn’t been taken out by a Rommie torpedo but by one of their own goddamn ships.  It sucked.  It just sucked.

In his mind he watched Em shrug, liquid and Latin and lovely.  _‘Así es la vida’_ , she would have said. ‘That’s life.’ She’d been so warm and supple in his arms.  Now she was somewhere out there in space, frozen and dead, just like so many others, but not like any of the others at all, because he’d been in love with her.

And now she was dead.

And so was his heart, because the organ that was still methodically pumping the blood around his body was just a mindless mass of muscle tissue that would never feel anything, ever again.


	7. Archer

Paperwork.

Damned paperwork.

He’d hated it when he was a captain and he hated it worse now he was an admiral.  Mostly because there was even more of it, and now the initial euphoria of victory had given way to the inevitable exhaustion and grief at the cost of that singularly pyrrhic triumph.  The Xindi mission had been bad enough – though that had borne the unique sorrow of knowing every one of the casualties by name, men and women of _his_ ship, under _his_ command.  Now the casualty toll was exponentially higher, and for all the anonymity of most of them, still the loss tore at the unhealed wounds in his soul.  Doubtless the cost was no greater than the repulsion of the invading fleet demanded, and he knew that those who’d died in the cause of freedom probably thought their lives well lost for it; but he’d seen the grieving families after the return from the Expanse, and the thought of still more weeping or empty-eyed loved ones made him shrink inside, unable to bear it.

So many ships, so many men and women….

And paperwork.  Fucking paperwork.

Weird, how they still called it ‘paperwork’, even now when it was all electronic and signed off with a jab of a thumb, registering his assent to something he couldn’t even remember reading.

Name after name, ship after ship.  Some he couldn’t even have attempted to pronounce in their actual languages, but automatically translated for his benefit.  One after another he signed them off: _lost with all hands._

 _Intrepid._ Fresh, sharp, rending sorrow stabbed into his core, already weary to death with grief.  He tried not to think of how he was going to break the news to Hoshi; he owed her that at least. 

But it wasn’t _lost with all hands._ The entry said ‘ _Lost, survivor report unconfirmed._ ’

...Possible survivors…

He pressed the button to summon his aide.  Lieutenant Williams appeared like a genie summoned from a bottle, his own eyes telling the tale of the hours spent amassing reports and putting them into some kind of coherent order for his boss to wade through.  Jon felt a flicker of guilt for adding to his burden, and repressed it ruthlessly.

“The _Intrepid_ ,” he said, pointing to the screen.  “It says there may be survivors.  Get me the details of who picked them up.”

The sandy-haired Welshman had a memory like a computer himself; it was one of the things that made him such an invaluable asset for an admiral who had more hats to wear than there were days in the month and sometimes struggled to remember which one he was supposed to be wearing at any given time.  Jon wasn’t surprised when Williams frowned into space for half a minute and then his brow cleared.  “That would be the _K’Hatek_ , sir,” he replied confidently.  “Thirteen casualties, status unknown.

“That would be Captain T’Pol’s ship, of course, sir,” he added.

Jon’s brow creased as he tried to recall the details of the search and rescue operation.  “I didn’t think the _K’Hatek_ was involved in the S &R.”

“Not officially, sir, no.  Hasn’t got the capacity, though they were standing by to help out. We’re still waiting for their final reports to come in.” A guileless blue glance.  “Bit inefficient for Captain T’Pol, sir, if you ask me.”

“You’re not kidding,” said Jon.  His tone was sour, but a flicker of hope had lit among the ashes, and Williams grinned and went out again, leaving his boss to get on to the _Endeavour_ ’s comms officer.

There are times when rank really does have its privileges, and a call from the flagship appeared to carry clout even aboard a Vulcan warship.  It was only a moment or two before T’Pol’s cool visage appeared on the viewscreen.  She was in her Ready Room, probably – he hoped – going through the last of those unaccountably late reports.

Illogically, Jon felt a spark of irritation that his ex-First Officer looked as fresh as though she’d just come back from shore leave.  She returned his gaze with a look of demure innocence that he was damn sure was quite unmerited.

“Admiral,” she said politely.  “How may I help you?”

He controlled the first words that sprang to his tongue, but he couldn’t refrain from a tone of heavy irony.  “I understand, Captain, that you took on board survivors from the _Intrepid_.”

“Indeed I did, Admiral.”  Her face was as open as the sky.  “It was a rescue carried out during the regroup, and I have not had time to visit Sickbay in person since then.”

“Don’t you think your medical staff could have gotten their reports to you a little sooner?”

“My medical staff have been working extremely hard tending to the injured.  I hardly imagine you would prefer them to be writing out reports rather than alleviating suffering.”  Far back in the deep brown eyes amusement glimmered.  “However, as it happens I am completing the last of the SARSIT reports as we speak.  I will transmit them to you as soon as they are complete.”

“Damn it, T’Pol, just tell me the names!” he exploded.

One eyebrow climbed, though her face remained maddeningly calm.  “Certainly, Admiral.” She looked down, as though consulting a list on her desk, and began reading.  “Cartwright, Elaine.  Delaney, Michael.  Dupois, Francine. Dwivedi, Eila.  Fabiana, Farrell.”

_“T’Pol–!”_

“Gomez, Emilia,” she continued in the same disinterested voice, while his heart leapt.  “Grant, Robert.  Kuroda, Akeno. Matsuura, Hiromi.  Levett, Brandon.  Lyall, Richard.  Redwood, Nicholas.” A brief pause and a flash of eyes; surely Vulcans didn’t do malicious humor?  “Reed, Malcolm.”

What the – _why the–!_ Jon clamped his mouth shut on expressions unbecoming an admiral.  “You didn’t happen to think I might want to know about my old officers before this?” he asked, controlling his temper with an effort.  “For pete’s sake, I thought they were both _dead!_ ”

She laid down the report and faced him, her face now gravely compassionate.  “They were both badly injured, Admiral.  For the first twenty-four hours, you could well have been right about either or both of them. I felt that that was a burden you should be spared, among so many that were unavoidable.”

He felt some of his wrath drain away, but not all.  That hadn’t been her decision to take, not on his behalf.

“There was also the matter of Commander Reed’s family to consider,” T’Pol continued seriously.  “I knew you would want to give his wife the news at the earliest possible juncture.  In her condition, I felt it best to withhold this until we could be more certain that it would not simply raise her hopes only to dash them again.” 

There was no denying the validity of her reasoning.  The rest of his anger began to subside.  “So they’re recovering?” he asked more mildly. 

“Lieutenant Gomez suffered extensive burns, three fractured ribs, a ruptured spleen and a broken leg, but she has regained consciousness,” the Vulcan replied.  “She is responding well to pain control, the ribs are healing cleanly, the spleen has been surgically repaired and our medical team believe her burns will be treatable with skin grafts.”

Once again she paused, this time for considerably longer, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach Jon realized she was trying to find a gentle way to say what she had to say.

“Commander Reed suffered cranial trauma and facial injuries as well as burns to his upper body.  He had a fractured pelvis which caused severe internal bleeding.  He also,” she drew a deep breath, “sustained severe damage to his left hand.  My surgeons did their best to repair it, but it is still uncertain whether they were successful.  He is still in coma, and there is no indication when, or if, he will emerge from it.”

Jon put his head in his hands.  _Cranial trauma …_ that would almost certainly mean brain damage.  “How severe was the damage?” he asked.  “To his head, I mean?”

“I believe his jaw was badly broken, and there was damage to some of the other, more minor facial bones,” she answered.  “It has been repaired using a special new technique, though some support will have to remain until natural healing takes place.  Once the swelling has subsided, he will have only minor scarring that can be treated at a later date.

“The skull trauma was naturally more serious.  There was swelling of the brain beneath the site, and my surgeons operated at once to relieve the pressure.  However, the extent of the damage will not be known un–un _til_ he awakens.”  She hadn’t been quite deft enough to cover up the fact that she’d been about to say ‘unless’, and had undoubtedly noticed his slight flinch.

He leaned forward urgently.  “T’Pol, I’ve got to contact Hoshi and I want to give her something she can hang on to.  Tell me the truth: do they think he’ll survive?”

Another pause.  “It seems more likely than it did when he was first brought on board.” She was clearly choosing her words with extreme care.  “But his body has probably not recovered completely from the damage sustained during his absence during the Xindi crisis.  It may be that he is simply too exhausted to continue.”

The urge to protest against that bleak prognosis was almost overwhelming, but Jon nodded.  On so many occasions Reed had been within touching distance of the last horizon; sooner or later, the man’s luck had to run out.  “I’ll tell Hoshi he’s alive but badly injured, and we’re doing everything we can for him,” he said heavily. “At least she’ll have that much.”

“I have already arranged for messages to be sent to the families of the other survivors as soon as I submit my reports and Starfleet has made its own official announcement.  I believed you would wish to inform Hoshi in person, but I will advise the Reeds as soon as you have spoken to her.”

“I’d be grateful for that.  My first encounter with Malcolm’s parents didn’t exactly inspire me to want to talk to them again.”  He scowled.

“They may be interested to learn that Lieutenant Gomez believes he saved her life after the destruction of _Intrepid_.  If her account is accepted, he will undoubtedly be awarded a medal for his courage.”

“Well, make sure you tell them that.  Maybe it’ll make them sit up and take notice of him finally.  Might even make them think about forgiving him for not joining the Royal Navy.”

Another list of report headings spooled on to the side of his viewscreen; Williams had obviously been busy again.  Jon heaved a resigned sigh.  “Look, we’ll talk about this later.  Keep me posted about Malcolm and Em, all right?”

“Certainly, Admiral.” Her nod was small, but reassuring.  “You will receive daily updates, and news of any significant developments as they happen.”

“Great.  Just don’t send them to me as a damned _report._ ”

“Noted.  T’Pol out.”  Her faintly smiling face disappeared, to be replaced by the familiar Starfleet arrowhead, and yet another list of reports.

Reports.  Damn all reports to hell.

Jon opened his flask of coffee, took a hefty swig, and with a sigh clicked on the first.  It was two in the morning, Earth time; he wouldn’t disturb Hoshi just yet.  A call at this hour would probably give her a heart attack.  With any luck she was still asleep, and he’d leave her to it.


	8. Gomez

Being awake was constant misery.

Being asleep was intermittent hell.

Em was not at all sure which she preferred.

To be sure, the medical staff were kind, in their dispassionate way.  And the discovery of the extent of her injuries made her even more grateful than she’d already been for the efficacy of the pain relief that was constantly being administered to her via the drip at her bedside, as well as for the treatment that had saved her life.

Nevertheless, they couldn’t do anything for the memories – and she suspected that these would be far slower to heal than the various damages to her body.

As _Intrepid_ ’s tactical officer, she’d had a couple of seconds’ warning of disaster – no more.  Not enough to cry out vain orders to Ensign le Saut at the helm, not enough to tell the captain they were all going to die; not even enough to catch her _patrón_ ’s eyes for the last time and promise to meet him again _en paraíso._ But more than enough to watch the shockwave of the explosion bursting apart the superstructure of the huge Andorian ship behind them and propelling the vast bow-section directly towards _Intrepid_ ’s stern.

She saw it when she was awake, and lived through it again when she was asleep.  She twitched and cried out, only to wake and realise she’d made hardly any sound, and that the rending and bellowing in her ears was the memory of the ship’s fabric collapsing like folding cardboard under the colossal impact from the rear.

In real time it must have happened almost too fast to comprehend.  In her mind, in that excruciating, long-drawn-out agony, it happened step by step, played over and over and over again: the Bridge exploding in slow motion from below and behind.

_Comandante_ Reed had been watching the readouts, but she thought he had a split second to realise what was happening.  His head came up, wide-eyed, just as the viewscreen crumpled and exploded.

Something burst away from it.  Now she knew it had been one of the internal support struts, but then she had not had time to know what it was, only to watch helplessly, mesmerised, as it hurtled through the collapsing space of air towards her like a duranium javelin, twisting as it came.

She would not have moved. But the _patrón_ moved, flinging out a hand into the path of that deadly length of metal even as the console behind him bulged outwards and burst against his head and body.

He did not catch it; such a thing was not possible.  But the side of his hand exploded in blood and bone as the metal passed through it, and the small impact was just – just, _por el gracia de Dios!_ – enough to deflect it.  The strut had thrummed past her face, and that had been the last thing she remembered clearly.  After that, there had been fire – fire, and fear, and pain, the incredible pain; pain so appalling that even the buckled ceiling above opening to let in the abyss of space would have been merciful.  Too much pain to move, too much pain to think; pain that was not enough to stop her heart, as it felt as though it must.

There would be no rescue.  Her rational mind would have known that, if it had still been functioning through the eternity of agony that she endured thereafter.  But somehow, by some miracle, the buckled ceiling had held, and presently there had been rescue. Vulcan hands, Vulcan faces; cool relief spreading through her body as the hypospray found her neck, and cool darkness into which to sink.

She would live.  They had told her that.  But the effort of whispering out her first words, that that her _patrón_ had saved her life, had left her too exhausted to ask what she longed to know.  Now the doctors who came and went treated her with impersonal kindness, but had no time either to talk or to listen.

Sometimes, when she found a spark of life, she thanked the good God that she had been privileged to know two of the most remarkable men He had ever created; but whether either of them were still alive or not, she did not know.

And the name that she breathed like a prayer each time she swam up from the nightmares, no-one at all could have heard – not even she herself.


	9. Sato

The rain was over.

Dawn came early in the summer, but even so the first glimmering of light in the eastern sky found Hoshi awake, standing in the lead-paned bedroom window looking out over the orchard.

Her husband had loved this view: the hills rolling down to the sea, and the glimpse of blue visible through the cleft of the valley.  On sunny evenings the blue could be transformed into a sheet of pure gold, and sometimes the clouds on the horizon looked like hills in the Land Beyond the West: _Lyonesse_ , ancient English legend called it, and whenever he was at home Malcolm had started to read stories to Charles from one of the dusty old books in the library, about kings and queens and brave knights and fair damsels (‘What’s a damsel, Daddy?’ ‘A damsel is a beautiful lady, half-pint, just like your Mummy.’)  There was an armchair in the library, upholstered in what must once have been royal blue and gold; it was so old that the stuffing was peeping out of it in a few places where its fabric was threadbare, but it was supremely comfortable, and it was there that the two of them sat in the early evening, the soft light of the lamp on the antique side-table spilling over the stiff, yellowed pages as the two dark heads bent over them.

Charles was too young to understand about death, of course, but it seemed he was old enough to pick up the undercurrents in his world.  Although everyone had been careful to keep all mention of the war and the danger to his father from his ears, during the last couple of days he had become very clingy, unwilling to play unless he had her in view.  The evening before, just before his bed-time, she had found him in the library, sitting in the chair with one of his picture books, and reading to one of his teddy bears in the crook of his arm.  Though it was too early for the lamp, the late sunshine was filling the room with gold.  Of course, he was far too young to actually read yet, but there was so faithful an echo of his father’s voice in the solemnly parroted phrases that her eyes filled, and suddenly the effort of keeping up the pretense was almost more than she could bear.

But whether or not it was bearable, she had no choice but to bear it.  At least until the official casualty lists were released, and the worst was finally confirmed.

It could not be much longer now.  Surely, it couldn’t be much longer…

The _ping_ of an incoming call sent her flying to the dressing-table.  There was a small portable monitor there, she could pick up before the noise roused Charles, who’d refuse to go back to sleep if he was woken at this hour, and be grumpy with tiredness all day.

She dropped into the chair, gasping at the effort with the extra weight.  The Starfleet logo on the screen sent her heart into her mouth, and the captain’s image popped into view as she pressed ‘Accept’.

“Jonathan?” With the battle over, the fleet would be on their way home.  The signal must be coming via Echo Two, her mind said blankly, as though that was something that mattered.

“Hoshi, it’s … it’s not bad news,” he said quickly.  “Malcolm survived the battle.  He’s still alive.”

For a moment too many reactions fought themselves out in her head.  _Still alive, still alive!_ But the linguist in her seized on _not bad news_ that wasn’t _good news_ , and the shadows on Jonathan Archer’s face that the forced smile on his mouth couldn’t disguise.

She put her hands on her belly as though to shut out _not bad news_ from the child within.  Sherrie Jessa turned over, one of the characteristic heavy flops that were now becoming acutely uncomfortable; her mother would be grateful when the baby settled into the pelvis and no longer had room for these acrobatics. Surely it couldn’t be too much longer now.  Her due date was less than a month away….

“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked flatly.

He looked down at his desk.  Even now he probably had no idea how much nonverbal communication was flying across subspace to this cottage among the Cornish hills.  _Crippled… blinded… burned…._

“ _Intrepid_ was destroyed during the battle.” His voice was very quiet.  “Only thirteen people got out alive.  Malcolm was one of them.  Em was another.  He saved her life.”

She wanted to smash her fists against the screen and pulverize it.  _Tell me, you bastard._

“But he was on the Bridge, and it was badly beat up.  Ramirez was killed. Malcolm, he … he was badly injured.  Broken pelvis, broken jaw, damage to his face, internal bleeding.  He had one hand smashed up; they still don’t know if they’ll be able to save it.”

_Malcolm in the armchair, in the pool of golden lamplight.  Turning over the old pages of the book with careful, reverent fingers._

“What else, Jonathan?”

He looked all around as if wishing he didn’t have to look at her when he said it.  “He had a skull fracture.”

_Skull fracture.  Brain damage._

_Malcolm, reading aloud and patiently fielding questions about the pictures in between times. ‘Yes, the king has a doggy.  Maybe we can have a doggy when you’re a bit older.’ ‘No, not now.  Maybe when you’re a bit older, and Jessa knows not to pull doggies’ tails.’  They’d decided to call her Jessa for everyday, because Sherrie would be a bit confusing; it had been Hoshi’s idea. ‘No, not like that one, that’s a wolfhound.  We’ll have a German Shepherd to look after you and Jessa and Mummy when I’m away.’ ‘Yes, of course you can help choose a puppy.’_

“Is he conscious?”

“Not yet.” 

_Not yet, maybe not ever. Malcolm, Malcolm._

“And… is Em okay?” _Oh Malcolm, are you ever going to wake up?_

_And who will you be if you do?_

_Will you still know us?  Will you still love us?_

The relief on his face at having some good news to pass on was almost pitiable.  “She broke her leg and three ribs, and ruptured her spleen, and T’Pol says she’s gotten some bad burns, but the Vulcans are treating her and the burns should be okay with skin grafts, probably later.”  There was the sound of a chime behind him.  “Hoshi, I’m so sorry…”

She nodded.  Of course, an admiral’s time right now must be at an all-time premium.  “You’ve got things to do.  Will you…”

“Any news, I’ll pass it on to you straight away.” He didn’t do a good enough job of hiding his relief at being able to escape before she broke down, though at least he tried.  If he’d been in the room with her it would probably have been different, but deprived of the capacity to hug her (Jonathan Archer had always been deeply tactile), he probably couldn’t bear the sight of her grieving here alone. 

He’d signed off before she thought to ask if the casualty reports had been generally released.  No matter; you don’t work in Starfleet comms as long as she had without acquiring a few tricks of the trade.

Fixing iron floodgates against the tide of her anguish, at least until this one job was done, she punched in codes.  She knew the people to ask, the frequencies to access.  Even the way to get hold of a MACO who was fast asleep in his bunk….

He looked haggard.  Burned out.  But when he managed to shake off the tatters of sleep, she saw the careful composure nailed down across his face; he wouldn’t add his pain to her own, and _he doesn’t know_ , and that realization made things somehow – just somehow, just a little – better.

Preparation was just so many wasted words, and she, a linguist, wasted none at such a moment.  “Em survived, Matt,” she said baldly. “They rescued her from the _Intrepid_.  She was injured, she’ll need treatment, but she’s alive and conscious.”

His knuckles gleamed white.  “You’re sure?” he said after the seconds required to make his voice serve him.  “They said–”

“I just had it from Cap– Admiral Archer in person.” She even managed a smile, though it was piteous.  “Looks like you’re not off the hook after all, Major.”

He put a hand briefly across his eyes to hide his emotion.  Doubtless, too, he was searching for some way to ask the question that had to follow, desperately hiding his own joy in case the answer was the wrong one.

“Malcolm’s alive too.”  She took pity on him.  She wanted to add _but he’s not in a good way_ , but the words wouldn’t make it past the lump in her throat.

Still, he was a remarkably observant man, and – when circumstances required – a very sensitive one.  She saw his fingers reach towards the screen.  “Hoshi, if there’s anything I can do–”

“I don’t think anyone can do any more than they’re doing for him already.”  That was the terrible thing: the utter helplessness.  The waiting, while the ships traveled the long road home.

He looked down.  She saw the options, weighed, considered, discarded; he was so like Malcolm in some ways.  Always needing some route to action.  But he was on duty and on board a ship that probably had its own duties, and duty, always duty: it was duty that had taken Malcolm away from her; she saw him walking away down the drive, dark and light, slender and strong in his dark coat with the collar huddled up against the bitter cold and his hands thrust into his pockets; just a moment ago the fingers of one hand had brushed lightly, lightly against the bowl of Christmas roses; so lightly that not a petal was disarranged as he turned to kiss her one last time, warm and strong, his mouth as passionate as always, but without promises in it, because there could be no promises in this war….

“I’ll find some way to reach him.” The grim words were an oath.  “I’ll find him, and I’ll bring him home to Earth for you.  I won’t let him go, Hoshi.”

Fingertip touched fingertip.  She had always trusted him, and he had never let her down.  “Keep him safe for me, Matt.”


	10. Hayes

It took every favor he was owed and a few he wasn’t, but Major Matt Hayes got his butt onto a ship bound to join the homeward-bound fleet.

The rest of his MACOs were headed for cleaning-up operations – the real, mundane sort, helping to repair the damage and get the station on Aldebaran Prime functioning again.  It wasn’t anything that needed his personal supervision and he hadn’t taken a day’s leave in over a year, so he shamelessly horse-traded his way onto the _Pegasus_ (and a more unsuitably-named ship than this one had surely never existed, for he hadn’t been aboard it three hours before he decided it should have been named after a crippled snail rather than a winged horse).

 _Pegasus_ was transporting medical supplies.  Ideally something faster would have been more use, and her cargo bay was only half full of what it would ordinarily hold, but the ship was the best that could be spared, and there were plenty of casualties in the Taurus Settlement requiring treatment.  As well as in the settlement itself there had been running battles around the system, and it had been decided to establish a centralized medical station down in what had been a storage area for the vast array of machinery that serviced the mining industry.

It took three days to reach the fleet – days he spent alternately working out, reviewing schedules and writing letters of condolence to the families of those in his squad who’d lost loved ones in the retaking of Aldebaran Prime. 

He’d been long gone before Earth’s contingent of the fleet had originally set sail, but news reports had carried plenty of reassuring stories of its strength.  The spectacle that filled _Pegasus_ ’s view screen now was a shadow of the tremendous assembly that had set out.  Hardly a ship among them all was unmarked; it was frankly a miracle that some were still under power.  Even the flagship _Endeavour_ was scarred and scorched.

Earth was another week’s travel away as _Pegasus_ docked with the _Okivir_ , a huge Tellarite ship that was acting as the treatment hub for the walking wounded. It made sense to centralize the medical operation as much as possible, though many ships still carried those too badly injured to risk transporting them.

All hands were needed to help with getting the supplies out of _Pegasus_ ’s cargo hold and stashed wherever they were required on _Okivir._ Matt did his fair share and maybe a bit over, more used than most to strenuous manual effort.  Not until the last case was safely stowed did he collar a passing medic and ask how he might find one of the casualties he had a particular concern for.

The medic – probably an orderly, his face worn with weariness under an untidy mop of brown hair – seemed about to return a sharp answer, but even out of uniform Hayes presented a formidable air of authority.  Nevertheless he’d taken care to ask politely and with deference, and maybe it was that which made the younger man more cooperative than he might otherwise have been, even going so far as to direct him to the nearest turbo-lift and give him a tip about which Tellarite icon represented the deck he wanted.  Very shortly after that, Matt stepped out of the lift’s car (presumably the ship’s crew thought the combination of yellow and purple lighting in it aesthetically appealing) and found himself in an area that was like a huge hangar deck, populated from end to end with curtained-off cubicles.  Like in any hospital, some of these had their privacy curtains drawn back and the occupants of the beds within were either chatting quietly, reading, dozing or watching stuff on PADDs, headphones in their ears to keep the noise level down.  Presumably the occupants of those whose curtains remained drawn were asleep or sick or just wanted to shut out the rest of the world; although the medic had warned Matt that noise was to be kept to a minimum, the base level of sound was still fairly considerable given the number of machines that were humming and ticking away, monitoring life-signs and dispensing antibiotics and pain relief.

It was crystal clear that the doctors would have their hands full to overflowing with treating such a huge number of patients, and Matt discarded his half-formed intention of collaring the first one he found who was likely to understand English or who was wearing a Universal Translator.  His best chance was to enlist the help of one of the support staff, who could direct him to whatever register they were keeping here on who was where.

The vast space was divided into orderly lanes of cubicles.  There must be hundreds of people in here.  As he started walking, he saw that most of the people who were awake wore an indefinable air of – well, satisfaction, despite their pain.  They hadn’t gotten away scot-free, but they’d done what they set out to do.

Just like he intended to do too.  The temptation was there to peep into the closed-off cubicles, because Em and Malcolm could be anywhere in this huge place, if indeed they were here at all, but he resisted it firmly; privacy was important.  None of the faces he saw were familiar, and for perhaps fifteen minutes he didn’t find any member of the staff who looked likely to be able to help him either.  A couple ran past, presumably on urgent errands, but his was not urgent enough to justify distracting them so he curbed his growing impatience and walked onwards.

Another transport must have just arrived.  A couple more gurneys were being wheeled in.  He stepped back to let them pass.

He almost didn’t recognize her. It was only that over one side of the gurney spilled a couple of burnished tresses of the deepest chestnut hair, so deep it was all but black; hair that he’d wound through his fingers when they made love, that had clothed her nakedness like a glorious cloak.  She wore it plaited on duty, so that unbound it fell in ordered waves; he loved to see it tumbled and magnificent across the pillow. 

_“Emilia!”_

Visible through the slit in the dressings that covered the upper part of her face, her eyes were shut.  At the sound of his voice they opened, slowly – she was probably dosed up with drugs.

The lower half of her face was uncovered, though at the right side of her nose the skin was red with minor burns that ran up under the dressings.  There was a cage across her right leg, which was raised slightly, and a support across her midsection, but as her gaze shortened to take in his presence her mouth curved gradually into the familiar, wonderful smile.  “ _El Comandante_ ,” she murmured, and beneath the sheet covering her there was movement as though she would have lifted an arm.

“Right here with you, sweet.”  Swallowing the lump in his throat, he put a hand – how thankfully! – on the beautiful curve of her shoulder as the orderlies, seeing that he wasn’t going to hinder their progress, pushed the gurney onwards to wherever it was destined to be placed.  “Look, I’m going to walk with you till I find where you’re going to be put and then I’ll be checking in on you later, right?  I’ve got something to do first but I’ll be right back.”

Thought welled up, and with it, urgency.  “The _Patrón_ ….” Her voice was a little hoarse; maybe the lining of her throat had been damaged by smoke inhalation or something.

“I’m on it.  I promise.  I told Hoshi.”

“She is well? The _bebé….”_

“She’s okay.  Still holding on to the baby.  She’s got guts, our Hoshi.”

“And you, _querido? Desde luego_ it went well, or you would not be here.”

“Sir, she really shouldn’t be disturbed,” one of the orderlies said, apologetically but firmly.

“ _Está bien_ , I am silent. _Vamos, querido…._ ” She shut her eyes.  He thought she was exhausted by the effort of speaking, and with a small squeeze of her shoulder he released her and stepped back.

The gurney was wheeled into yet another of the anonymous cubicles and various monitors connected to the woman on it.  With practiced expertise the orderlies hooked her up to a saline drip, made sure she was comfortable, and departed about their other duties.

Matt didn’t even know whether Em was still awake, but he couldn’t just walk away from her without a word.  With a guilty glance around, he bent down quickly beside her head.  “I won’t ever be far away from you, sweetheart,” he whispered.  “If you need me, just get them to fetch me.  I’ll make sure they know where I am. Love you.”

“ _Te amo…”_ It was so soft he wasn’t even sure he’d heard it at all, but the hollow of fear that had sat in his heart all the way here was less deep than it had been.  He dropped a kiss that was as light as a snowflake on her lips, then turned around and walked out of the cubicle, drawing the curtain closed behind him.

He brushed a hand across his eyes. Must have gotten dust in them somehow.

He was just glancing around to orient himself so he could find his way back here without difficulty when he needed to when a passing Tellarite accosted him.

“You’re not medical staff and you don’t look injured to me, so what the hell are you doing here?”

For a moment he was taken aback by such an unwarrantedly aggressive approach, then he remembered that to Tellarites this was a perfectly normal mode of address. “Taking a stroll round to take in the sights, asshole!”  

The orderly grunted, satisfied.  “Looking for someone?  Not that I care if you are.”

“Human.  Ugly guy. From that useless _Intrepid_.  Name’s Malcolm Reed.”

“Huh.  Don’t remember the name.  Wait a minute.” He fished out a PADD and brought up a screen, which he scrolled down rapidly.  “You Humans have such stupid names… No, he’s not on the list.”

Matt’s stomach muscles clenched.  “Are all the casualties on that list?”

“The ones here are.  It’s updated as soon as they’re brought on board.” The small eyes in the porcine face studied him. “Friend of yours?”

Well.  Maybe there had been a time when that would have been pushing it a bit, but after all that had happened… “Yeah.  We owe each other.”

With another grunt, the Tellarite took a comm unit out of his pocket, keyed in a code and pressed it to his ear; presumably there was no loudspeaker function in order to keep the noise down in here.  When the response came, he requested whoever was on the other end to check ‘the big list’ for this – “What did you say his name was?”

Hayes repeated it carefully, first with the surname first and then with the given name; there was no saying that Tellarites followed the same indexing system rules as Humans did.

There was an agonizing pause.  Then the sound of a voice at the other end.

“Uh-huh.” A nod.  “Right.  I’ll pass that on. Yes, thanks for nothing.” He disconnected and glared at the visitor.  “He’s too sick to be moved.  He’s still on board the _K’Hatek_.”

Finally it felt safe to breathe again.  “But he’s still alive?”

“If he _wasn’t_ , I’d have _told_ you that!”

“Right.  Well, you’ve been enormously unhelpful and I’m sure your superiors are thoroughly ashamed of you.”

The orderly nodded, gratified.  “It’s been disgusting meeting you.” 

An attempt to shake hands would probably have been deeply insulting, so Matt walked away.

He wasn’t sure where he was going to go next; it was unlikely that there would be anything as convenient as a taxi service between ships traveling in convoy, certainly not for someone who was there on officially unsanctioned business.  However, as he was passing a row of curtained cubicles near the exit, he caught the sound of a voice from within that was familiar to him from his days on _Enterprise_.

“I’ve had excellent results from the secretions of my Orthorian larvae…”

 _My luck just turned for the better._ Of course it would be unthinkable to intrude, and extremely impolite to eavesdrop, so Matt removed himself to a point from where he could keep the cubicle under observation without hearing anything of what was going on inside it.

Some minutes passed; presumably the patient within required some form of treatment.  But eventually the privacy curtain was pulled back and Phlox appeared, along with two doctors who were unfamiliar.

Maybe it was the sense of being watched that drew the Denobulan’s attention from his PADD, for the unearthly blue gaze found Matt almost immediately.  “Please carry on, gentlemen, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

It was hardly surprising that the doctor looked exhausted, but nevertheless there was still an air of genial welcome.  “Major, this is a surprise!” But after a moment, he smiled.  “Ah. Lieutenant Gomez.  I believe she’s been brought over here.”

Matt spared a moment to wonder whether there was actually anyone in Starfleet who _didn’t_ know that he and Em were an item, but Phlox was so pleased with himself that it was impossible to grudge him the supposedly ‘insider knowledge’.

“I suppose you want an update on her,” the doctor continued, pulling out a PADD from one of his capacious pockets.  “She’ll be on here somewhere …hmm, hmm, I know I saw the name…”

It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time, but finally he found what he was looking for.  “Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t disclose it to anyone but a relation or a nominated representative, but …” He rattled off the details, while Matt listened intently, paling at the extent of them.  “I know it sounds terrible,” he concluded, laying a fatherly arm on the MACO’s wrist, “but she’s receiving the best of care and has responded well to initial treatment….” A pause.  “Physically, her prognosis is good.  Mentally… I think there will be scarring.  She will need a great deal of support, I think.  Support, patience … and love.”

“She’ll have them.” He used no flowery words, but the three fell heavily, with all his weight behind them.

“I appreciate you telling me this, Doc. I won’t take up any more of your time, but I need to find Commander Reed as well, and I’ve just been told he’s on one of the other ships.  I was wondering if you could help me hitch a ride somehow.”

The smile faded.  “I haven’t been able to visit him myself, Major, but Doctor Mesoral is very highly thought of in the IME.  I can assure you Mister Reed is in very capable hands.”

“I’m sure he is. But I’m sure the ship’s doctor has more to do than he has time to do it in, and I … well, I’m doing someone a favor.”

Phlox cocked his head to one side, and then smiled and nodded. “Of course, of course.  If you can wait for maybe half an hour, until we’ve finished our rounds, then I’ll see what I can arrange.  If you’d like to take a walk down to the far end, our kind hosts have set up a little Mess of sorts.  It gives the patients a little motivation to get up and walk about, and socializing is an important part of the recovery process.”

“Thanks, Doc.  It’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Major.  Let’s hope happier times are in front of us now.”

“I’ll sure go with that.”

The Mess that had been set up at one end of the hangar was pretty informal, just a long table where volunteers handed out drinks and snacks.  There were a number of tables and chairs set out where patients rested, ate and talked before returning to their own beds; watching animation slowly return to the faces of those who’d taxed themselves to make it thus far, Matt thought that it was a good idea to allow these people who’d been through so much to talk it out of their system with others who’d shared their experiences.  Here and there, of course, were those who just wanted to eat and drink in silence, maybe just enjoying the break from four curtained walls.  Undoubtedly his own isolation would mark him out as one such, and though he made eye contact with a couple of people and nodded acknowledgement, nobody had spoken to him by the time Phlox appeared.

The doctor’s slow walk was that of a very tired man indeed.  He sank into the chair beside the MACO and accepted a glass of some kind of juice that a volunteer brought him over.  “Bringing the wounded into a single unit was an excellent idea,” he observed, after thirstily consuming more than half of the pale pink liquid, “but it has to be said that it makes ‘rounds’ a most demanding exercise.”

“Must take you the best part of a day each time, I’d guess.”

“Not far short of it, I’m afraid.  Still, I’m always glad to feel my skills are beneficial.  Though some patients are easier to treat than others,” he added with a dry smile.

“And talking of difficult patients…”

“Yes, indeed. Of course, you’re impatient to see him.” He set down the glass, and Matt immediately felt guilty, and urged him to finish the rest of it, taking his time; it wasn’t as though Malcolm was going anywhere.

Phlox relaxed gratefully, and helped himself to a cookie from the plate of them in the middle of the table. “Perhaps I might pay a call to the _K’Hatek._ Not on an official basis of course, but since Mister Reed was one of my patients during his last course of treatment, I’m sure Doctor Mesoral will understand my professional interest in his progress.

“That way, I would be more easily able to arrange transport for the two of us,” he added, dunking the cookie thoughtfully in the fruit juice, where it immediately broke. “Dear me, I keep forgetting this happens…”

=/\=

The doctor was as good as his word.  Less than an hour later, the two men stepped off a small shuttle that had transported them to the _K’Hatek._

T’Pol was waiting for them.  “Doctor.  Major,” she greeted them politely.

“Thanks for allowing us on board, Captain.”

A nod.  “I believe that congratulations are in order for yourself, Major.  The retaking of Aldebaran Prime was a complete success, I understand.”

“Yes, Ma’am. The Romulans didn’t make it easy for us, but we have a lot of brave men and women on our side.  They did a fine job.”

“Fine leaders create fine followers,” she observed, leading the way to her ship’s Sickbay.  “From the reports I have heard, I understand you are among those in order for promotion on the strength of the operation.  Allow me to offer my congratulations.”

He hadn’t heard that – he hadn’t waited long enough to hear the scuttlebutt – but it would have been false modesty to deny his own efforts.  He gave her a quick, appreciative smile.  The news gave him a lot to think about, but it would have to wait.

Doctor Mesoral proved to be a tall, elderly, white-haired Vulcan whose air of reserved dignity made Matt think immediately of an Elf-Lord out of _Lord of the Rings._   However, he was kind, and raised no objection at all to one of his remaining patients having a visitor.  “I will arrange for a bed for you, if you wish,” he added in his unexpectedly deep, mellow voice.  “Or you could stay in one of the guest cabins.  They are small, but reasonably comfortable.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’ll see how I get on, if you don’t mind.”

Mesoral inclined his head, and led the way to one of the curtained alcoves.  Matt took a deep breath as he followed.  _Now for it…._

There were so many items of medical apparatus in place that they almost overwhelmed the bed in the middle of them.  Most of them, of course, were arranged around the head of it, but there was a machine of some sort across the lower part – doubtless some part of the treatment for the pelvic fracture Phlox had mentioned on the way over.

The Denobulan had obviously been doing his best to prepare his visitor for what was coming, but it was still a shock to see _Enterprise_ ’s former Head of Security lying utterly immobile, and somehow small and insignificant in the midst of this acreage of machinery keeping him alive.  Matt had seen Reed in the aftermath of torture by the Xindi, seen him half out of his mind with mental trauma in the weeks that followed, but never so completely and utterly helpless.

As he moved gingerly nearer, the two doctors started talking jargon between themselves about the patient’s various issues.  There was a lot of it, and none of it sounded good, even to someone who didn’t understand more than one in ten of the terms they used.

Almost the whole of Reed’s head was encased in bandages, with narrow gaps left for his eyes and mouth.  An oxygen mask was fitted somehow over his mouth and nose, and various leads snaked out to the surrounding monitors. More bandages were wound around his chest and his left hand, which lay motionless on top of the silver-blue sheet that lay across him.  He was catheterized, and hooked up to a drip on each arm.

His pulse appeared to be slow, but regular.  At least he wasn’t on a ventilator, though the presence of that oxygen mask was ominous.

Matt leaned over him, careful not to even brush any of the nearby machines.  “Hey,” he said softly.  “Hoshi sends her love.”

In the movies there would have been some flutter of response, maybe even a quickening of the steady pulse.  Here there was nothing.  Reed breathed slowly and evenly, his eyes motionless under the closed lids.

“I guess they’ll have told you we won,” Matt went on quietly.  “But maybe nobody’s had the time, we’ve all been kind of busy.  So if you can hear me, yes, we won.  It cost us some, but we did it.  My team cleared out Taurus Settlement on Aldebaran Prime – they told us that was of ‘major strategic importance’, but hell, what do us grunts know about things like that?  That’s the sort of thing tactical experts like you understand.  Me, I just get the job done.”

He imagined the grin at that.  At first, aboard _Enterprise_ , he’d had this guy written off as a humorless Limey asshole, but the reality was much more complex than that.  He hadn’t understood in the least what a bright, pretty girl like Hoshi had seen in her English lover, but then he’d never really seen him at all until the day of the wedding, when joy had finally laid bare the playful, witty, gentle guy who hid himself so effectively behind that rigid officer’s mask. If ever a husband had openly adored the woman he was taking to wife, that man had stood before the altar that day, and more than a few of the female guests had been reduced to floods of tears just looking at him.

“I just heard I’ve probably gotten a promotion, so you just lost your rank equality with me, _Lieutenant Commander._   And you know and I know that you’re still under ship’s orders, so here’s an order for you: you get your lazy ass out of that bed and get home to your wife and kid.”

No response.  He hadn’t really expected one, but he grinned all the same.  Stubborn Limey bastard, lying there deliberately ignoring a direct order and pretending he hadn’t even heard it.  “Hey.  You want me to put you up on a charge?”

“I think that might be rather excessive in the circumstances, Major,” said Phlox reproachfully. 


	11. Tucker

“Hoshi, there is no way you ought to…”

“Trip.” His heart sank at the tone of her voice.  “You have two options.  You can help me or you can shut the hell up and I’ll make my own arrangements.”

“Hoshi!  You are more than _eight months pregnant!_ There isn’t a damned commercial airline flyin’ who’d take you!”

“So I’ll go the slow way. I don’t care.  I’m going.”

“But what about Charles?”

“Mary has said she’ll look after him if necessary.  Sherrie’s coming with me.”

“Is _he_ okay with that?  And what about Stuart?”

“I can’t take a little boy all that way when I could go into labor at any minute.  As for Stuart, well, he’s … he’s changed a lot lately.” There was a secret smile behind the words.  “I think he’d be delighted to look after his grandson for a couple days.”

“This is not fair to Charles, Hoshi!” Trip said hotly.  “Hell, he’s not even three!  He won’t understand! He’s already lost his daddy, and now you’re leavin’ him as well!”

“I’m ‘leaving him’ because he needs a father, Trip!  And Malcolm is just lying there in that damned hospital in San Francisco and fading away!” 

Trip kicked the stool in front of him.  It flew across the office and fell over, dislodging a shelf that had been propped up for the past fortnight by a carefully positioned metal bar from an experiment he’d abandoned months ago.  The shelf had been carrying any number of PADDs, which now cascaded all over the floor in a merry flood.

“Matt has been a godsend,” Hoshi went on inflexibly.  “If you want the truth, I think if he hadn’t installed himself on that hospital ship I’d be a widow by now, and last time I spoke to him he said he was never going to read another page of _Lord of the Rings_ again as long as he lived.  But he’s done all he can, he got Malcolm home to Earth like he said he would and now he’s taken compassionate leave to look after Em.  He’s got his own life to live and I’ve taken too much advantage of him already.  It’s time for me to step up to the plate.”

“YOU. ARE. PREGNANT!” he shouted.

“I. DON’T. CARE!” she shouted back.  “I want to see my husband.  I _need_ to see him, Trip!  Can’t you get your stupid thick head around that, or is it too complicated for you?”

They were too old friends for hard words to carry much weight in such circumstances, but still the engineer breathed hard and reminded himself about pregnant women and hormones.  “Hoshi,” he said at last, forcing himself to speak calmly.  “I understand that.  Really, I do understand that.  But you’re puttin’ your baby at risk, and Malcolm wouldn’t thank you for that.  It’s not … it’s not like you can do anything the doctors can’t.”

On the vid screen, her gaze unfocused.  “I wonder.”

“Now _stop right there!_ ” He almost pounded the desk in frustration.  “I get it about ‘love conquers all’, Hoshi. But it doesn’t.  Truly, it doesn’t. I only wish it did.”  He caught himself back under control, hoping she hadn’t caught the undercurrents of his own helpless longing that things were different, that love really _did_ conquer all. ‘Cause if it did….

“How stupid do you think I am, Trip?” she snapped. “You think I think I’m going to waltz in there and kiss him like the prince kissing Sleeping Beauty, and he’ll wake up and everything’s going to be fine?  Well, think something else!”

“So what the hell are you goin’ for?” he roared.  “You’re scarin’ little Charles, you’re riskin’ yourself, you’re riskin’ the baby, and for what? You think it’s goin’ to do you any good just sittin’ there torturin’ yourself lookin’ at him?  You think he’s gonna know you’re there, when he’s so far gone he’s practically flatlinin’?  What the fuck are you hopin’ for, that he’ll wake up just long enough for the two of you to have this nice sentimental last goodbye scene?   _Get a grip, Hoshi!_ ”

The face that stared back at him out of the screen wore an expression that might as well have been framed by a Samurai _kabuto._ “I’m going because I have no choice, Trip. Get that into your head. And I’m not going because I believe in miracles. I’m going because I have one chance left to help him and I’m going to take it.”

He wanted to say _Not with my damned help you’re not_ , but he knew that she would go with or without his help, and without would be infinitely more dangerous.

“Twelve hours!” he snarled, pointing a finger at the screen.  “I can get leave to be out of this place for twelve hours. Not another goddamn minute!  I’ll borrow a shuttle, I’ll take you and Sherrie to the hospital, and the minute I say leave you up and leave, and I’ll take you back to that damn shuttle if I have to tie you up and carry you! Is that clear?” 

She smiled sweetly, Woman Victorious.  “Malcolm always said you were his best friend.”

“He should have said I was a crazy dumbass who shouldn’t be let out without a license,” Trip replied through his teeth.  “Well, I’ve got to go borrow a shuttle.  You get your bag packed.  And it’s twelve hours, remember – twelve hours from the exact second I leave this station, so it’ll take me a while to get back to Earth.  Shuttles don’t have warp drive.”

“I was aboard _Enterprise_ too, Trip,” she said.  “I’ll be ready, bags packed.”   


	12. T'Pol

Captain T’Pol was about to walk out of the landing port lounge when it happened.

The chirp of the communicator in her pocket was entirely secondary.  It was not that which caused her to come to a halt as though she had run into a wall of glass.

Fortunately her flight bag was on a strap over her shoulder, or she would have dropped it – an action that would have caused unseemly startlement to those around her.  Such behavior was not in keeping with the dignity required of the captain of a Vulcan starship, and she took a moment to compose herself before glancing around as warily as though expecting to find an ambush about to be sprung.

Of course, she knew exactly who she was going to see.  There was no-one else in the universe who caused the very fibers of her being to vibrate as though in sympathy with another tuned to exact same frequency. 

She even knew before she saw him that he was worried and angry, and for all her Vulcan self-control she felt her feathers lifting like those of a wrathful swan as she raised her head to survey the lounge, ready to surge forward in his defense.

Her instinct where he was concerned was _never_ wrong.  He was walking in through one of the far doors, every line of his body rigid with tension.  Even at this distance, every gesture screamed his frustration and fury.  And as she realized who he was talking to, she understood exactly why he was furious.

Even an angry swan maintains its massive dignity, but its advance is no less threatening for that.  She crossed the lounge with long, measured strides, knots of insignificant travelers parting before her bow-wave like panicked, scurrying ducks, and washed to a halt in front of formerly-Ensign Sato.

“This was extremely foolish of you, Hoshi,” she said in arctic tones.  “You have placed yourself and the baby in hazard, and for nothing.”

An elderly, white-haired woman made up the third of the party, and at T’Pol’s words her chin went up and her blue eyes gleamed defiance.  “And you are, pray?”

“Captain T’Pol, of the _K’Hatek._   To whom am I speaking?”

“This is Malcolm’s aunt.  Sherrie St. Clair.” Trip broke in angrily before either she or Hoshi could reply.  “I’ve been tryin’ to get her to see sense at least, but seems she’s as crazy as Hoshi here!”

“I shall take that as a compliment, Commander Tucker,” Ms St. Clair bit back.  “Since I have yet to learn that crossing and lecturing a pregnant woman is conducive to her well-being, I take leave to suggest that _my_ conduct in that regard is likely to be considerably more beneficial than _yours!_ ”

“Oh be quiet, the both of you!”

T’Pol blinked.  Maybe it was the discomfort that made the young Human female speak so abruptly, because there was no doubt that the advanced stage of her pregnancy must be acutely uncomfortable.  She was almost leaning backwards to balance against the weight of her abdomen.

She herself was the next recipient of this unexpected lack of respect as Hoshi’s glare turned in her direction.  “As for you, T’Pol, I’ll remind you that I resigned from Starfleet and we’re not still aboard _Enterprise_.  I’m quite aware that my behavior isn’t ‘logical’, Trip’s been channeling you on that score ever since we left Cornwall.  But I don’t believe that I’m putting myself or the baby in danger for no reason.  I _have_ a reason.  And I need your help.”

It was on the tip of the Vulcan’s tongue to remark that for someone who needed help, she was certainly going a strange way about getting it.  However, to make such a reply would undoubtedly lead to the sort of scene that was bound to attract attention, and Commander Tucker was already more than harassed enough without having more troubles heaped upon his ruffled blond head. 

“I imagine that you have come to visit the hospital where your husband is being cared for,” she said with glacial calm.  “May _I_ remind _you_ that he is already receiving the best of professional care, like all the other casualties of the conflict.  I understand your wish to be with him, but in all honesty I perceive no way whatsoever in which either of us can possibly be of assistance in his recovery – and should you go into labor,” she went on bluntly, “caring for you will add considerably to the already heavy burden on the hospital’s resources.”

The words bounced off Hoshi’s intransigence like thrown peas hitting Mount Seleya.  “That’s a risk I have to take, T’Pol.”

Their exchange was already drawing attention, and none of it was wanted.  The captain put some effort into ensuring that her long exhalation was completely soundless.  “I have a meeting with Ambassador Soval that is due to begin in exactly two hours,” she stated.  “That will probably take the remainder of the day.” She was going to add ‘And I have not yet broken my fast’, but for some reason the words would not come.

Her carefully-laid schedule took her to the Vulcan Consulate, where she’d planned to eat, review her reports and meditate briefly before meeting Ambassador Soval in his office.  The heavy realization came to her that her chances of breakfast, reviewing the reports and probably meditation as well had just gone out the window; she might possibly have had the hardihood to have abandoned Hoshi to her aunt’s care and the consequences of her own folly, but it was painfully obvious that Commander Tucker felt himself inextricably involved in the matter.

This was not the only matter in which he was inextricably involved.  T’Pol was all too aware of the fact that he hardly glanced in her direction, and felt a familiar pang of guilt for her own stupidity and recklessness.  The commander was at an age when he should be thinking of establishing a permanent bond with a Human female of about his own age, preparatory to establishing a home and reproducing.  He was a handsome, intelligent, charming man, with a great career in front of him, and his exploits aboard _Enterprise_ would surely mean that he would have little difficulty in attracting prospective mates….

“This is hardly the place for a discussion.” She found herself speaking very curtly indeed.  “Since it appears you are absolutely determined to visit the hospital, I suggest we do so without more ado.”

A flitter had already been arranged to be at her disposal.  The driver had his instructions, and looked startled to find he was to take her and the other passengers to the Lawrence Hospital rather than to the consulate, but one glance at Hoshi and he doubtless formed his own conclusion that there was an excellent reason for the change of plan.

It was a comfortable vehicle, but not the roomiest, having been sent to transport only one person.  It was such a struggle for Hoshi to get in through the door that for a moment T’Pol feared she might go into premature labor on the spot.

However, such a crisis was thankfully averted.  The young woman settled down into her seat, gasping with exertion, her hair already darkening with perspiration in the heat.

“This is outright crazy!” Trip exploded as the flitter started to move to join the traffic stream.  He was sitting in the seat beside T’Pol, and the Vulcan tried not to be aware of the sensation of his knee resting alongside hers – before he too became aware of the casual contact, and jerked his leg away as though burned. Certain memories resurfaced that she had spent a great deal of time and effort in trying to bury, and it seemed that it was the same for him, for he deliberately shifted to set more distance between them.  At this proximity, the Bond shuddered and rang with his anguish.

“D’you think I don’t know that, Trip?” Hoshi snapped. 

Her aunt-by-marriage took hold of her hand and squeezed it consolingly, but said nothing.

“You spoke of ‘needing my assistance’.” With a supervulcan effort the captain diverted her attention from the overwhelming urge to reach out, to touch, to _contact…_ after all, who was she to sit in judgment on Hoshi’s folly when in a moment of weakness she herself had committed an act of arrant idiocy whose consequences were still unfolding?

“Yes. I know– I know it’s a long shot.  Actually I know it _is_ crazy. But I,” she breathed out a long sigh, and rested a hand lightly on the bulge of her unborn child, “I can’t let him– I don’t want to have to live with myself afterwards knowing there was something I could have tried.”

So she knew that her husband was dying.  After the last of the wounded had been finally removed from the ship into the care of the waiting hospitals on Earth, Doctor Mesoral had admitted that he did not believe that Commander Reed would ever regain consciousness.  The elderly Vulcan had expressed his admiration for the fidelity and patience that Reed’s friend Major Hayes had displayed, sitting by the bedside day after day to read aloud chapters of a book that the major apparently thought the patient might enjoy, but even at the time the doctor had doubted whether the activity could possibly have had any effect; there was no response in the monitored brain activity to suggest that it was even being heard.  And it must have been utterly draining for the already exhausted major himself, who had accepted the offer the loan of one of _K’Hatek_ ’s shuttles to travel back and forth between the two ships in order to spend his nights in the poor comfort of a chair beside Lieutenant Gomez’s bedside so he was there to console her when she woke in distress.

There was a little silence.  Commander Tucker seemed to find something out of the window exceptionally interesting, and surreptitiously wiped his eyes. “Okay.” When he spoke again, his voice was noticeably more moderate, if not entirely steady; he tried again, with satisfactory enough results to allow him to continue. “Okay, Hoshi. Tell us– tell us what you want.  Whatever it is, we’ll back you up, we’ll get it done somehow.  But afterwards, promise me, _promise_ me you won’t just sit there waitin’ for the end and tearin’ your heart out.  So help me, he wouldn’t want that.  You have to look after yourself.  You have to let him go.”

For one moment she shut her eyes, and T’Pol feared that the barrier behind which immensely powerful emotions had been locked was about to give way.  But the tremor passed.

“I promise.” The words were so softly uttered they were all but inaudible. 

There was no doubt that the promise was given in honesty.  But T'Pol, aware all too keenly through her Bond with Commander Tucker of his intense anxiety for Hoshi's state of mind, wondered uneasily just how easy it would be to keep when - as the Human saying had it - 'the chips were down'.

Still.

In the circumstances, what else could she do but accept it?

 


	13. T'Pol

Unsurprisingly, the hospital staff were unimpressed.

However, they were far too busy to mount organized resistance to the wishes of Lieutenant-Commander Reed’s soon-to-be widow.  After terminating the interview with the acerbic observation that he would have thought that high-ranking officers such as themselves would have far more pressing concerns than to encourage a grieving young woman in her condition to indulge in some morbid form of play-acting with her dying husband, the consultant in charge of his care dismissed them to go do whatever they wished, as long as they kept it quiet.

“Yeah, thanks for the sympathy,” Commander Tucker muttered as they walked away down the corridor.

“It’s probably what they call ‘compassion fatigue’,” Ms St. Clair said gently, threading Hoshi’s arm through hers and giving it a consoling pat.  “Every human being, no matter how well-intentioned initially, reaches a point where they simply exhaust their capacity to feel for the pain of others. With the number of casualties, I’d imagine that point has been reached for many people here.” 

“He might wake up and smell the roses if someone were to knock him on his ass.”

“‘Violence is the last refuge of the defeated’,” quoted T’Pol austerely.

“It’s also a damn good way of gettin’ a point across to some conceited dumbass who can’t see past his own problems for ten seconds to let a good woman find some comfort in her own way.” 

Hoshi herself said nothing.  It was possible that for all her astounding hearing, she hadn’t even heard the exchange.  Her entire focus was reaching out to the room up on the floor above, where her husband was slipping away.

Now that she knew what was being proposed, T’Pol was deeply uneasy.  Not only her own safety would be put at risk by this, but Hoshi’s and even the unborn child’s.

Through the Bond, she felt Tr– _Commander Tucker_ ’s simmering fear and anger.  He understood something of the potential risks, and wanted her to ‘pretend’ to go along with it.  And that was entirely logical, and would be entirely within her power.  After all, it couldn’t possibly do any good….

No-one said anything else as they made their way upstairs.  The corridors were cool and echoing.  Many people hurried to and fro, mostly medical staff; with the number of patients, visiting was having to be carefully restricted.  Quite possibly only Reed’s deteriorating condition and considerations of his wife’s physical and emotional state had obtained them access to him outside the stated hours.

There were a number of large wards, several small ones and one or two single rooms tucked away in a quiet corner.  Commander Reed was in one of these last.

Most of the complex machinery that had surrounded him on the _K’Hatek_ was gone now.  Only a couple of monitors quietly supervised his biosigns in the bare, cool little room.  There were no get-well cards, no flowers; the only sign of human contact was a small square piece of card, taped on the side of the night-stand where his eyes would fall on it if they opened. It bore no message, just four black paw-prints of assorted sizes, their shape suggesting they represented various members of the _Felidae_ family.

He had shown no sign of regaining consciousness since the battle, and now his life-signs were slowly deteriorating.  Privately, T’Pol thought now that Mesoral’s prognosis on the long-term outcome had been well-founded.

The treatment Reed had received aboard the _K’Hatek_ had borne fruit, insofar as his facial injuries were concerned; the dressings were off, revealing areas that were patchy with healing burns, and a new scar ran from his right eyebrow almost to his mouth. There was still some swelling, but it had subsided enough for him to look relatively normal again.  There were three tiny screws through one side of his jaw, presumably securing some kind of internal support, and the shape of the bedclothes suggested that there was still some form of support across his pelvis too, though the surgery to repair the fracture and the resultant internal bleeding had gone without a hitch. But it was not enough. 

He had always been strong, for all his small size.  On too many occasions to mention, Doctor Phlox had needed to resort to extraordinary tactics to keep his most reluctant patient caged in _Enterprise_ ’s sick bay long enough to receive the appropriate treatment. But now both strength and determination were gone, and the man on the bed seemed so slight and still that the shape of him hardly disturbed the covers.

Hoshi slipped forward and sat on the edge of the bed.  Her husband’s hands were lying motionless on top of the sheet, and she lifted the undamaged one and brought it first to her lips and then to her belly.  “Malcolm,” she whispered.

There was no reply.  On the watching machines, the steady readouts told the same story. Low pulse, slow breathing, minimal brain activity.

As best she could, she leaned over.  Agonizingly careful not to touch the side of his jaw where the support was still in place, she placed the lightest of kisses on his mouth. 

Low pulse.  Slow breathing.  Minimal brain activity.

Commander Tucker walked to the window.  There were horizontal blinds across it, blocking out the brilliant sunshine, and the shadows made his face strange as he stared out between them, tears gleaming as they tracked down his cheeks.  Arduously T’Pol struggled to block out the rending grief; she could not deal with it. 

There was a chair beside the bed.  Ms. St. Clair sat in it.  She said nothing, but her hand smoothed gently, over and over again, across Reed’s hair.

T’Pol took a deep breath.  They were wasting time.  Every second that passed increased the likelihood that Hoshi would be present when her husband finally died, and she knew that Tucker was dreading that above all else.  If there had been any reason to believe that Reed had any level of awareness left to him then perhaps being with him in his last minutes of life would have had some value, but since there was not, where was the benefit in waiting until a machine’s regular beeping finally merged into a single sound? 

 _DNR._ The order was printed across the bottom of the bed.  Presumably this would have been included in his personal wishes, noted when he entered Starfleet.  _Do Not Resuscitate_.  At a guess, nourishment would already have been withdrawn.

“I will do as you asked, Hoshi,” she said steadily. “On one condition.”

The black eyes met hers like leveled blades.  “And that is?”

“That I retain the right to stop when I think the attempt is hopeless.  You will not argue, you will accept my decision.  There will be no ‘second try’. We will do this once, and then we will let him go.”

The young Human stared down at her mate for a long moment. “It’s a deal.”

At the window, Tucker turned around.  His gaze pleaded for this to be some kind of play-acting, some fake route to consolation all round.

Sherrie bent down to kiss her nephew’s forehead, and then sat back.

Another chair was brought in and placed in position. Hoshi sat in it.  Her hands were now joined across her swollen belly; her face was a little pale, but her gaze was steady.

T’Pol took up position directly opposite her, breathed very deeply, and set her right hand to the psi points. _“My mind to your mind.”_  

Hoshi’s lips moved slightly as though echoing the words, but there was no sound.

 _“My thoughts to your thoughts.”_  

Human minds were so utterly different to Vulcans’.  Disorganized, chaotic.  Instead of being inside a wiring diagram, it was like being in a maze.  Emotion surged and battered, more felt than heard, like the _thump_ of colossal waves against a sea wall during a winter storm.

T’Pol centered herself.  A still point of flame in the chaos.

The sea-monster beyond the wall came close. Eyes watched from the darkness, incalculable.

Reed’s skin was cool. There was no prickle of awareness against her fingertips. The experience to come would be analogous to entering a cave, but no stygian darkness underground would even come close to the darkness of a mind in coma.

_“Our minds to your mind.”_

This was insanely dangerous.  She blocked out the buffeting of terror and rage through the Bond.  It would achieve nothing except to distract her concentration, and she would need all of that to get any of them through this.

_“Our thoughts to your thoughts.”_

Except that there were no thoughts.  There were no emotions.  Brief flashes – infinitely brief – were merely background brain activity, responding to chemical stimuli from the hypothalamus as it continued to perform its regulatory functions.

 _He is not here,_ she Sent to the waiting presence.

_I know._

_This is what you wanted to see.  There is nothing._

_I know._

_Then we should go._

_No._

_Remaining here is pointless and dangerous.  It is illogical._

_We haven’t finished._

_There is no more we can do.  He has gone. I am sorry._

_No._

_We made an arrangement.  It is over._

_I have to talk to him.  
_


	14. Reed

Silence.

If there had been capacity for thought, it would have been frightening.

As things were, there was none.  It was not frightening; it was not reassuring. It was not anything.  It simply was.

If there had been capacity for realisation, there would have been realisation that he was sinking deeper and deeper into it.

As things were, there was none.  He was not sinking; he was not rising; he was not drifting.  He simply was.

There was silence.  He was silence.

If it was anything, it was peaceful.

So the voice was unwelcome.

If there had been capacity for movement, he would have turned over like a drowsy sleeper hearing a forgotten alarm clock, and burrowed into the silence that was himself.  The voice was distant, so very far distant.  He did not want to hear it.  He wanted to be the silence.

As things were, there was no capacity for movement.  So, floating spread-eagled in the silence he was part of, he heard the voice.

_Beloved._

Her voice ....

If there had been capacity for puzzlement, he would have wondered why it sounded different.

But there was no capacity. He simply received, and accepted.  _Jessa._

_It is time to rest, Beloved.  Time to come home._

_Home..._ silence was the smell of horse-dung and woodsmoke, and unleavened bread warm from the bake-stone. The hot, dusty odour of Haiz’s hide and the aromatic sub-note of the herbs laid in the clothes-chest to ward off the moth. The honey sweetness of her body. The less-than-subtle aromas of the _Acha-we_ late in the evening: roast meat and ale, wool and leather, and bodies that weren’t washed daily with soap and warm water.

He laid his lips between her breasts, as close as he could get to the heart that beat for him. _I love you._

_I know._

Silence was the warm circle of her arms.  He was very tired. And comfortable; how utterly comfortable.

The silence folded him closer.  _Home, home...._

**_‘But this is not home.’_ **

In the midst of the silence, the words were appalling. They were not-hers, and so they were horrifying, unreal, a violation of everything that was.

This was not part of the silence.  He felt a tremor of dread go through him, and clutched her closer.

_I love you.  I will always love you. Always, my beloved. I will keep you safe._

The words that were not-hers had broken the silence.  A pinhole of light opened in the darkness, and thought surged in, and with it, terrible realisation. The words were not-hers, because they were _his._

And, last of all, memory....

Parting from her was agony.  _I will always love you._

_And I you._

_But I loved her first. I love her now, more than I thought I could ever love anyone. I’m sorry._  

There was a sense of shining; joy, out there beyond the silence.  But there was joy behind him as he turned, slow and resolute, rediscovering movement.

It was difficult.  Unbelievably difficult.  It had been so long since he had been anything but the silence. But step by slow, stubborn step he re-learned the marvellous, intricate structures of his brain, reconstructed the arc of electricity between neuron and neuron.

**Being** flashed in the silence, dazzling.  **Feeling** flashed in the silence, amazing. **Thinking** flashed in the silence, stunning. 

_I love her._

_I love her._

_I love you._


	15. St. Clair

_“Sonofabitch!”_

Sherrie St. Clair did not, in the general way, approve of bad language. But the term that fell from her lips almost in the same instant that Commander Tucker’s shout shattered the tense hush was one that she felt afterwards was – well – forgivable, in the circumstances.

The machines behind her nephew’s bed had been humming and ticking quietly.  At a guess, this was business very much as usual.

Her attention had been fixed on the dark green square on which the slow pulses lifted the centre line: _Lub-dup. Lub-dup. Lub-dup._ Her fingers clasped together so tightly that afterwards she found the imprint of her handbag handle pressed into the flesh, she watched the sluggish spikes spring into being, one after another.  Soon now – very soon, if she was any judge – the last of those spikes would drop, and no more would come.

_DNR._

She wanted to accept that it was time.  She wanted to accept that Malcolm had endured enough. She wanted to will him to find peace after all the suffering.

She couldn’t.

She was a selfish old woman, and his wife needed him.  They had one wonderful child and another on the way.  He couldn’t die.  He couldn’t.

The noise came from a different machine.  It was so loud and sudden that she couldn’t understand what was happening.

_“Sonofabitch!”_

Her gaze jerked towards the commander, who had fairly leaped forward from his station beside the window.  His eyes were blazing towards another of the machines.

This one, too, had a green screen.  But the small, lazy waves that had occupied it were now splintering into spikes of their own, and those on the other screen had acquired sudden, extravagant life. 

The numbers at the side of it began rising. Since their arrival it had registered between thirty-two and thirty-four – presumably measuring heartbeats per minute.  From experience, Sherrie knew that although low, this was within safe limits. Now, however, the rate soared.

Since pressing her fingers to the side of Malcolm’s face, T'Pol had been rigid, as if in a trance.  Hoshi too had sat transfixed, her gaze wide and unseeing, but a moment later she’d begun to breathe words in a foreign language.

Throughout the journey from England, she had been unforthcoming about exactly what she planned to say to her husband if – and it was a big ‘if’ – she was able to persuade her previous Vulcan superior to assist in what even she admitted was a crazy idea.  Having sat at her own husband’s deathbed, Sherrie had naturally supposed that Hoshi wished to make her farewells, and given Malcolm’s reported condition then it was unlikely that he was still capable of hearing her in the normal way.

Sherrie had the utmost admiration for her nephew’s many skills, but she was above all a realist.  These did not include a facility with languages.  There was only one that she knew of that he had acquired any fluency in, and as she listened in bewilderment to unknown words with an unmistakable note of tenderness, she had finally realised with horror the insane gamble that Hoshi had risked everything to take.

T'Pol straightened with a gasp, breaking the contact with Malcolm.  He turned his head quickly on the pillow, a frown line incising itself between his brows. His eyes fluttered open, dazed, searching.

Hoshi lunged forward, sobbing.

T'Pol disconnected from her too and lurched into waiting arms that lifted her to safety, raised her face to a man who planted frantic kisses all over it.  “You’re okay, honey, tell me you’re okay...”

Her previously rigid body melted into his embrace, became pliant and yielding. Her hands clasped his face; she returned his kisses hungrily.  _“Ashal-veh!”_ she panted. 

Sherrie took refuge in her handbag, groping for one of the lavender-scented handkerchiefs within to mop her eyes.  Finding when this operation was complete that two passionate embraces were still in progress, she retired into it again, taking the opportunity to rearrange the contents.  “Quite right. I am distinctly superfluous to requirements,” she agreed with her compact-mirror, severely if _sotto-voce._  

“Hoshi, love... for god’s sake be careful or you’ll go off ‘bang’,” Malcolm whispered weakly, his one uninjured hand finally dropping to caress his wife’s abdomen; his jaw movement was obviously severely restricted, presumably the support within made speech uncomfortable, but he managed to mumble the words almost without opening his mouth.  “...Di'we win?  How did I get here?”

“You and the other survivors were picked up by the _K’Hatek_ after the battle.” She dropped her own hand to press over his.  “You’re in San Francisco, in the Lawrence Hospital.  _Intrepid_ was destroyed – I’m afraid Captain Ramirez was one of the casualties. And yes, we won.  Just.”  She kissed his forehead.  “That was from Matt, if you know what I mean.  Apparently you saved Em’s life.” 

He frowned.  “Buggered 'f I remember that...” 

“Malcolm!” said Sherrie reprovingly.

Clearly startled by the sound of her voice, he turned his head on the pillow.  “Bloody hell, Aunt, what're _you_ doing here?... Charles?” He tried to lift his head, searching for his son, but gave up with an exasperated gasp, probably at his own weakened condition. He winced, and put a hand to his jaw; presumably something there had given out a particularly severe twinge.  His fingertips found the screws and explored them gingerly before starting to map the rest of the damage above.

“Back in England, love, with your mother and father.” Hoshi caught his hand and held it, and stroked the uninjured side of his face gently.  “I couldn’t risk bringing him all this way.  You’ve been so ill ... we thought we were going to lose you.”

“The proverbial bad penny, thass me. Always turns up, wha'ever.”  He seemed to become aware of the couple by the window, still locked together. “Er, am I seein' what I _think_ I’m seein'?”

“Nothing you _ought_ to be seeing.” She was between tears and laughter.  “We’ve got so much to talk about. I thought I’d lost you.  I honestly thought I’d lost you this time.”

“I though' so too, 'n _Intrepid_ was hi'.” His eyes drooped. “Bloody hell... 'M so tired, and I must've been asleep for a week...”

Sherrie tapped Hoshi warningly on the arm even as one of the hospital nurses billowed into the room.  “I heard one of the monitors had malfunctioned.... OH!”

Malcolm smiled sleepily at her.  “Pleased t'meet you.  Don’t mind me.”

She walked forward and disbelievingly ran checks on the machines, glancing incredulously between him and the reports clipped to the board that had rested atop them.  “Commander Reed?  You _are_ Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed?”

“The one and only!” Commander Tucker had finally surfaced for air – though not, it was apparent, seen fit to release his death-grip on the Vulcan in his arms, whose head was now resting on his shoulder.  “Accept no substitutes!”

The nurse glared as though suspecting that some huge practical joke was in progress, and sailed out again, presumably to summon reinforcements.  A startling amount of checking and re-checking and interrogation was necessary before the hospital staff were apparently prepared to accept that this really was the patient who to all intents and purposes been a half-step away from the grave half an hour ago.

Once this was established, the visitors were temporarily banished while the care routine was revised.  Meds were administered, nourishment delivered (much to his disgust, he would have to be fed through a syringe for a while, since he wouldn’t be able to chew until the support was removed from his jaw), and when he was once more considered fit for public viewing he was lying propped up slightly, supported by a number of pillows.

He was still sleepy. However, his eyes opened when the door did, and he managed a vague smile.  “Though' you’d deserted me.”

“You don’t get that lucky.” Hoshi slipped her hand back into his. 

His gaze searched her expression closely, and he gestured in the direction of his scarred face.  “’M a bi' of a mess,” he said, low-voiced.

“It’s not that bad at all,” Trip said stoutly.

A faint, rueful smile.  “'Nurse brough' me a mirror. I 'nsis'ed.”

“A Klingon warrior bears such scars as tokens of honour.” T'Pol spoke quietly.  “And rightly so.”

“’Sides, you never were good-lookin’ anyway,” added Trip, plainly not wishing to get bogged down in sentimentality.

“'Cept when 'was standin' next t' you,” retorted Malcolm, lightning-quick.

Trip looked indignant.  “Damn, I can tell you’re feelin’ better!”

Hoshi leaned over her husband and kissed him.  “You look good enough to me still, sweetheart.  But I’m afraid you may have to do without me for a little while.”

“Charles?”

“No.  Not yet.” She bit her lip.  “I’m afraid...”

Now his eyes flew open.  “Wha'?”

“I thought they were just Braxton Hicks.  Now I don’t think they are.”

“Bloody hell!”

Sherrie pulled a chair forward.  “Hoshi, you should sit down at _once!_ ”

“Who’s this Braxton Hicks guy?” Trip demanded. “Sounds like some kind of private eye!”

“They are contractions,” T'Pol said – calmly, though with a repressed air of _I told you so._ “Prior to actual labor, the female body rehearses the process by toning up the uterine muscles. Doctor John Braxton Hicks was a nineteenth-century English doctor who specialised in obstetrics, and it was he who first commented on the phenomenon in a medical study.” 

“Fuck the bloody medical study!” yelped Malcolm, wincing again as he overstressed his jaw in his panic. “Somebody get a nurse!”

“For god’s sake stop twittering.  This will take hours.” Hoshi leaned forward and back again, pressing her abdomen and wincing.

Her husband glared.  “'M not ‘twitterin'!”

“Yes you are.  Or whatever you _are_ doing, just stop it.” She squeezed his hand repentantly.  “Look, I know it’s scary.  I’ll be okay.  I just don’t want you to worry.”

Sherrie bit back a snort.  Asking Malcolm Reed not to worry was like asking a fish not to swim. “She _is_ in the best place to give birth,” she pointed out to him.  “However, I dare say the medical staff should be informed, just in case this is not a false alarm.” And as nobody else seemed to be getting around to being practical rather than panicking, she walked out of the room to find somebody to tell.

It was probably inevitable that the announcement was not particularly well-received.  Various people seemed to feel that Hoshi had been irresponsible.  Fortunately Sherrie had honed her skills for years on her brother Stuart, and was more than capable of crushing one pompous ass who had the effrontery to suggest that in her condition the mother-to-be should never have left England.

“She was the Communications Officer aboard _Enterprise_ during the Expanse mission, and thus she is accustomed to putting herself in danger for the sake of others,” she said, matching him stare for stare.  “That mission would have turned out very differently indeed if she had not been aboard!  So I suggest that her _inconvenient_ presence here may be regarded as amply offset by her achievements aboard _Enterprise_ , and if you have a scrap of human gratitude in you, you will say no more on the matter!”

It appeared that he had at least a small amount of gratitude.  Perhaps word had spread, because no more was said in the furore of arranging checks on Hoshi’s condition, and very soon a wheelchair arrived for her transport to the labour ward.

“Go 'n' keep an eye on her, will you, Aunt?” Malcolm asked. He moved restlessly on the bed.  “I wan'ed to be there for this one... damn 'n' blast!”

“Of course I will, my dear.” She patted his shoulder.  “And you should try to sleep.  I know that probably sounds insensate, but these things can take a long time, and you have been very ill.”

“Just likes the feelin’ of havin’ us all worryin’ over him.  He’s a born attention-seeker, this guy.” Commander Tucker smiled down at him.  “Don’t worry, we’ll look after him.”

Of that, Sherrie had no doubt.  Still, this was all turning out a great deal differently to what she’d imagined when she’d boarded the shuttlepod in her back garden – it felt like several years ago; and it took her a moment to compose herself.

“His mother and father should be informed,” she said.  “By the same token, I am sure Hoshi’s parents would like to know what is happening.”

Captain T'Pol nodded. “I will take care of that.”  She glanced at Hoshi.  “I am sure everything will go well.”

“What she means is, ‘Good luck’.” The American crossed the room and gave Hoshi a smacking kiss. “Hope it doesn’t take too long, sweetheart.”

“You’re not the only one,” Hoshi ground out through clenched teeth; presumably another contraction was in progress.  She glanced back at her husband.  “And you behave yourself while I’m gone.  No chasing around after the nurses, right?”

“You just don’ wan' me t' have any fun.” He forced a smile, though his expression was strained with worry.  “As soon as ... as soon as, you’ll le' me know?”

“No, I’ll send you a cable when I feel like it.”

“Carry on like this, and I won’ marry you af'er all.”

“I think that is _quite_ enough,” Sherrie interposed; the orderly in charge of the wheelchair was showing signs of restiveness.  “Come along, Hoshi, we have things to do!”


	16. Sato

The human mind is adept at smoothing out the details of past experiences, at least as far as childbirth is concerned.  A diffuse memory remains of a period of acute discomfort and indignity, but the result is felt to be worth all the fuss.  Perhaps a clearer retention would be counter-productive for the survival of the species, and so Mother Nature has cunningly arranged for this blurring of the sharp edges.  At least until the next time.

Hoshi was now right at the sharp edge of ‘the next time’.

There were certain advantages in being a linguist.  The most notable right now was that it allowed her to swear comprehensively in over twenty languages, none of which would offend her aunt-by-marriage, though it was probable that Sherrie would make at least a reasonable guess at the gist of most of them.

With this being her second baby, she was already aware that her labor would almost certainly be shorter than the first.  This was naturally something she was grateful for.  Further, experience allowed her to go more readily with her body’s promptings, and she was less scared by what was happening. But as labor continued, she became more and more restless.

Last time, she’d had Phlox in attendance.  After all the trauma she’d been through, the Denobulan had insisted on being present for the delivery, and although his oppressively persistent cheerfulness had occasionally exasperated her to the point of wishing she could hit him over the head with something just to shut him up, she trusted him absolutely.  After all, with three wives and however many babies in the extended family, it wasn’t like he didn’t have ample experience.

Reason told her that the midwives here must have even more experience.  They were brisk and competent. They checked her progress at intervals and made supportive noises. Then they went away again, and left her with Sherrie, who was a great person to have with you even if she could hardly be described as experienced, given that she’d no children of her own.  She made no fuss and didn’t insist on talking, and produced a seemingly endless supply of damp cloths and lavender-smelling handkerchiefs.  For a woman who’d always seemed so refined, she coped remarkably well with matters that were … well… _basic._

But she wasn’t enough.

“Very soon now!” said the current midwife cheerfully, straightening from the latest of a very long line of examinations.  “Another centimeter and you’re there!”

_Tell me something I don’t know._ A series of particularly colorful expressions in Ancient Klingon went through Hoshi’s mind, but fortunately didn’t pass her lips; swearing in Klingon was not something that could be done in a voice of moderation.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes to check on you!”

Ussō! _I’ve got to put up with this for another ten minutes_ _?_

The contraction passed, but the dissatisfaction remained.  She thrust out a hand to Sherrie.  “Give me a hand, I want to walk.”

Walking wouldn’t be a joy either, but she’d been doing it whenever she could since she’d gotten here, and it helped.  For one thing, it took her mind ever so slightly off what was coming next.  The intervals were getting shorter and shorter, the contractions stronger and stronger.  Very soon now they would merge, and then the trouble would really start.

She’d been offered an epidural and refused it; the idea of such clinical intervention in a natural process seemed somehow repugnant to her.  That refusal was starting to feel like a really, really stupid idea.  However, it was too late to back down now, even if she’d wanted to. 

With an effort and the older woman’s ready assistance, she got herself off the bed.  Just a few steps around the room.  She’d done it so often now it felt as though there should be a groove worn in the flooring.

Her feet had other ideas.

“Do you need the bathroom again, dear?” Aunt Sherrie asked anxiously as instead of starting on the usual slow, laborious circuit she headed doggedly for the door.

Hoshi didn’t answer.  Her concentration had narrowed down to an arrowhead.

Fortunately, the corridor outside was empty.

The bathroom was on the right.

She turned left.

Sherrie started twittering worse than Malcolm.

The elevator.

Nobody in it.

_Good._

First floor.

_Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck_

The elevator doors hissed open again.  Sherrie was still twittering.

Main wards on the left.  _Don’t want those._

Hopeless cases on the right.  She’d be right at home there.

Holding herself upright by sheer force of will, and moving with the grace of a constipated duck, Hoshi set one foot in front of the other.  How short a distance this had seemed, how short a time ago.  How long it seemed now!

Another contraction hit as she reached the door, and bent her double.  She was vaguely aware of voices, all variations on the ‘What the’ theme, though ‘Holy crap!’ introduced a note of originality.

Both Sherrie and Malcolm were twittering now.  Must be a family trait.

She got as far as the bed and glared at its appalled occupant, who was stupid enough to be trying to sit up.  “I’m having it here, so _bIjatlh 'e' yImev!”_ she snarled.

There was frantic activity around her.  There was no room on the bed and no space in the room for another, and besides, she didn’t have time.  The next contraction didn’t die away.  It just went on and on, getting stronger and stronger, until it occupied her entire world.

Pillows off the bed, sheets out of a cupboard, piled onto the floor.  She squatted beside the bed and then dropped to her knees, sinking her teeth into the mattress.  All of the universe that wasn’t concentrated at the base of her body was pinned to the hand that held hers, both of them white-knuckled.

Nobody said anything.  It was far past the time for that.  She tried to breathe but the compulsion to push was all-consuming; she couldn’t spare the concentration. 

She bit harder and harder.  Tears of effort squeezed out of her eyes.

_“Go on, girl,”_ somebody whispered.

_Push, push, push._   Hands supporting her body, clasping her arms.

_Push, push.... breathe...push, PUSH!_

Almost before she was ready, the pressure suddenly eased. There was movement between her thighs, and sudden activity around her; voices exclaiming.  “She’s okay! I’ve got her! Easy, Hoshi, just a bit more...”

The next _push_ was almost an afterthought. With a final suffocated, animal grunt of release she felt the baby slip free.

There appeared to be someone official in the room.  A certain amount of magpie-clacking followed, to which nobody paid much heed.  When she was finally able to blink her eyes clear, Hoshi watched Malcolm as his best friend carefully lifted his newborn daughter up for him to meet for the first time.

She wouldn’t have missed this for anything.

More magpie-clacking followed, to which neither of them listened.  The arrival of a paediatric nurse to check that everything was well with the baby introduced a brief, anxious hiatus, but everything was declared fine; at only just over thirty-seven weeks’ gestation, a couple of grams under three kilos was held to be a very respectable weight.  

Around them, the room underwent a certain amount of rearrangement and a spare gurney made up as a bed was brought in, into which Hoshi was unspeakably grateful to be lifted.  There were certain obligatory postpartum operations, for the duration of which the visitors were shooed outside – with the very temporary loan of Sherrie Jessa, now wrapped cosily in a shawl for the better ease of being handed around and cooed over, although it was unlikely that one of the visitors would do much by way of cooing.  Doubtless the new grandparents would also be sent video transmissions via cellphone of the new arrival, and little Charles would be shown the first pictures of his new baby sister. 

Finally relaxing against the soft pillows, Hoshi watched her husband with amusement.  Their baby was less than three meters away, with people he’d trust with his life, and he was still watching the door like a hound on point.  “They’re not going to run away with her, you know,” she said at last, smiling.

“Better bloody no’, or I’ll be ou’ of this bed af’er them.”  He turned on the bed as best he could – which wasn’t very far – and reached out to hold her hand.  “Thank you,” he said simply.  “’F I’d known what you were goin’ to do I’d’a kicked your arse f’m here to Christmas, bu’ – thank you.”

“I didn’t know I was going to do it till I was actually doing it, and by then it was too late.”  A nurse had brought her in a plate of toast, and she took a slice and bit into it ravenously.  The silence alerted her to the way her husband was staring at the food; she could practically see the saliva dripping off the end of his tongue.  Of course, he hadn’t eaten since before the battle, and until his jaw was freed from the support he could only be fed liquids.  “Best toast I’ve ever tasted, this,” she informed him blithely, waving the slice to show its glistening golden surface to best effect. “Pity _you_ can’t have any.”

“You are a spi’eful, sadis’ic woman, and when I ge’ ou’ of this and we’re both feeling up to it, ‘m going t' punish you severely and a’ length.” 

“Ooh.  Promises, promises.”  She chomped the toast, and licked a dribble of butter lasciviously off her lip.

“And you will enjoy every minute of i’.”

“Hey! Hey!  Little ears listenin’!” Trip had pushed the door open now that they’d been given the all-clear to come back in. 

“Oh, you’ve heard worse th’n tha’ I’m sure,” said Malcolm, deadpan.

The engineer grinned.  He was holding the baby in the crook of his arm with an unmistakably proprietorial air; no doubt having helped to bring her safely into the world had given him delusions of adequacy. “In any case, pal, I’d guess ‘bout the only thing that’s stiff around here right now is that thing in your jaw,” he quipped.

“Given your expressed concern for the infant’s sensibilities, a certain amount of ‘double standards’ seem to be in operation here,” T'Pol observed somewhat disapprovingly, while Aunt Sherrie busied herself groping in her handbag for a lavender handkerchief, or possibly even smelling-salts. 

With no visible diminution in the grin, Trip carried his precious burden over and placed her carefully in her mother’s arms.  “This little lady’s lookin’ for breakfast, if I know anything.  You okay with that, Hoshi?”

She herself had no qualms, but she was aware of Malcolm’s possessive streak.  Before she could come up with some tactful way to request a little privacy, Trip showed a diplomacy that some would have doubted he possessed. 

“I guess you three would like a little quiet time for a while.  I’ll take these two lovely ladies out for something to eat, and we’ll be back in an hour or so.”

Hoshi nodded.  “Thanks, Trip – thanks to all of you.”

“It was our pleasure,” said T'Pol – graciously, if probably not entirely truthfully. No doubt Ambassador Soval would be entirely understanding of her having kept him waiting for hours while she nursemaided a parcel of ex- _Enterprise_ officers behaving in a way that could only be described as irresponsible in the extreme.

“Don’t suppose you want me to bring you back a bacon sandwich, Mal,” was Trip’s parting shot.  Fortunately the door closed before the epithet in response hit it.

Hoshi giggled.  The beds had been pushed as close together as they could go, so she wriggled over a bit.  She still felt as though she’d been rolled on by a rhinoceros, and she’d have been glad of a shower rather than a top-and-tail, but these were minor ills compared to the wealth that had now been poured into her lap.

Unfastening the neck of her nightdress one-handed was a little awkward, but she managed it.  Malcolm was touching his daughter’s tiny fingers and toes, studying the crumpled-looking face and poppy-bud mouth while the infant stared back at him earnestly.  Still liberally coated in vernix, Sherrie Jessa wasn’t the most beautiful-looking of babies yet, but there was no doubt whatsoever that all of her father’s love had already closed around her.

It had been a bit more awkward with Charles, both of them being new to breastfeeding.  Fortunately, this time Hoshi knew how to help. After a bit of experimentation, the baby got the taste of the colostrum.  Seconds later, the anxiously fumbling little fingers stilled and the familiar suction began.

“ _Con’ac’_ ,” said Malcolm quietly, seeing her smile and relax.  “Hoshi, love, thass – thass just the most wunnerful sigh’.  Jus’ amazin’.”

She took his hand again, smiling; listening to his mangled accent was so funny.  Nevertheless, “I can’t stay here, sweetheart,” she told him reluctantly.  “Charles is at your parents’ place.  He’s fine with them, but he’s been scared – he’ll be fretting.”

He lifted her hand to his mouth, and kissed her fingers gently. “He needs you the mos’,” he answered.  It was obviously growing more painful and tiring for him to talk, but he spoke firmly, even if his lips and jaw hardly moved.  “’S soon as they discharge you, go home with Jessa and Aunt Sherrie.  Give ‘m my love and tell ‘m I’ll be home as soon as ever I can ge' ou' of here.”

“You could tell him yourself on a vid-link,” she suggested.

He smiled a little wryly – the quality of his smile had changed somewhat with the scar and the residual swelling –  and pointed to his face.  “Don’t wan’ t’ frigh’en him with this lo’, do we?  See wha’ you think, love.  You c’n tell him abou’ i’ ‘n see how he reacts, and then we’ll take i’ from there.  Take it gently, explain wha’ happened.  Maybe help him draw a picture. Ge’ him used t’ the idea of i’ before he has t’ see the reali’y.”

She touched the new scar very, very carefully indeed, tracing it with the lightest touch of her fingertips to where it ended at his eyebrow.  At a guess, the back of his head was scarred too, but it was still wrapped in a cap of bandages; there would undoubtedly have to be scans taken and more tests done, but he was alive, and awake, and that was what mattered more than anything. “You wouldn’t be my Malcolm if you weren’t beaten up a bit.  I saw you after Silik had finished with you, remember, and even that didn’t put me off.”

He winced at the memory.  “I was young and foolish then.  I’m ge’in’ too old for all this heroics stuff.”  A pause, and he searched her eyes again.  “I’ve made a decision, Hoshi, and I hope you won’ have any objections to i’: if Starfleet decide the threat from the Romulans is done with, and there’s an openin’ for me in R&D, I’m going t’ request a transfer.”

He took a deep breath.  “Le's face i’, love, I think my days on board ship are over.  Bu’ even if ... even if I recovered enough t’ pass the medicals, thass not wha’ I wan’ t’do any more.  My heart’s not in i’.

“I know the bulk ‘f the research is carried ou’ at the Jupi’er Yards, but there’s no way I can’t make a valid contribution workin’ from home.  I’ll se’ up a workshop, star’ workin' full time on EM field developmen’.  It’s fascina’in', and I’ve wished so often I had more time to devo'e to it.  Now, I wan' t' stop wishin’ and star’ doin'.

“I know there’ll be new ships buil’, and space is still ou’ there, but I’ve had enough of explorin’ the stars.  Now I wan' to explore bein' a husband and a father.  If that’s a voyage you like the sound of shippin’ ou’ on...”

“Sign me up, Captain,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss him.  “Along with the other two members of the crew.”


	17. Reed

The sun was dropping towards the rim of the moors as the flitter-taxi drove up the valley.

Its sole passenger sat back and watched the valley walls rise and enclose him in shadow, cool after the heat of the day.  He was tired after the long transatlantic flight, and even the short hop to St Austell Airport had seemed interminable.  Now, all he wanted was to drop into a seat that wasn’t going anywhere, and finally to drink a cup of tea that wasn’t fuel for an onward journey.

It seemed to have taken an interminable length of time for the doctors and the physiotherapists to declare him fit to leave hospital.  He still had to attend as an out-patient at the hospital at St Austell, but that was nothing; the important thing was that he was _here_ , at long last _._

“Just here.”

The roses were in full, riotous bloom, spilling over the garden wall.  The air with which he filled his lungs as he got out was moist and warm, with the hint of woodsmoke; the sky over the hill was a cloudless, perfect blue.  In the top of the pear-tree a blackbird was in full song, while down the valley a parliament of rooks debated in the beeches beside the old vicarage. 

The gate squeaked.  He always threatened to oil it and Hoshi always stopped him.  She liked the noise for some peculiar reason.

He had his transfer.  He had his work to do, valuable work that would benefit Starfleet.  Now he wanted to embark on the last and most important voyage of his life.

As he walked slowly up to the front door, it was pulled open.  A young boy in a miniature Starfleet uniform hesitated on the step, staring; and for a moment Malcolm’s heart jumped into his mouth.  But next instant the child hurtled forward to wrap arms around his legs, gripping them so tightly he all but overbalanced.  “Dada, Dada, DADA!”

“Whoa, half-pint!  Don’t knock me over!”  Dropping his holdall, he bent and picked up his son for a hug, conscious of a speeded pulse:  this was the acid test.  His mirror told him every day that he’d left the best of what looks he’d ever had behind on the _Intrepid_.  Hoshi might be too kind to tell him he was an even uglier git than he’d been before, but Charles was too young for anything but honesty.

After the first of the passionate embrace was done, the boy leaned back surveyed him solemnly.  Fortunately the jaw support and its screws had finally been removed, but his eyes and then his finger traced the damage that the new skin grafts couldn’t quite conceal.  “The bad men hurt you, Dada,” he said.

Well.  That was perhaps oversimplifying things, but explaining what had actually happened would probably confuse him.

“Well, they won’t be hurting anyone else,” he said gently.  “Your daddy helped a lot of brave men and women fight them off, and now they’ve gone.  You don’t have to be scared any more.”

The big eyes studied him for the truth of that.  “Mummy was scared,” Charles whispered.  “I said I’d look after her and Jessa, but ... I was scared a little bit too.”

Malcolm tightened his arms around him.  “Then you won’t ever have to be scared again, because I’m here to look after all of you now. And I’m not going to go away and leave you again.”

“Not ever?”

“Well.  I think everyone’s mummy or daddy has to go away sometimes, just for a few days.  But that’s the lot, half-pint.  I promise.”  A movement in the doorway caught his eye.  “Come on.  Let’s go indoors and see Mummy and Jessa.” 

Hoshi had hung back a little to allow the two of them their reunion, but now she was smiling out at him from the doorstep, the baby in her arms.

Vid-conversations were better than nothing, but not enough – not _nearly_ enough.  Enough to know that Hoshi was coping well, and that baby Sherrie Jessa was thriving, and that Charles had been to see Great-Uncle Edward’s car in the museum and wanted to have one for his very own one day; enough to see that Sherrie had joined the Ramblers Association, and that Nana Reed had joined the Women’s Institute, and that Grandpa Reed walked up the lanes every day to take his grandchildren out for an airing; enough to have heard the details of _jijii_ and _obaasan_ Sato’s visit.

But not _enough._

_Enough_ was Hoshi in his arms, and their children held between them, and their house, their _home_ , around them.  _Enough_ was knowing his long journey was over. 

=/\=

Much later he lay in the big bed upstairs, with the window open to let in the cool night air.  The moon stood high over the valley.  The only sound from outside was the occasional distant querulous hoot of a tawny owl, hunting in the woods.

In the cot against the far wall, Sherrie Jessa was fast asleep.  She was a good baby, and usually slept for seven or eight hours now. 

In the nursery next door, Charles was also asleep. He had a picture of Great-Uncle Edward’s car pinned up on the wall, and a book of his very own that showed lots and lots of cars.  He couldn’t read it yet, but he was going to, and in the meantime Mr Hobbs had told him what each of the cars was called, because Mr Hobbs knew a _lot_ about cars.  It was not hard to perceive that Mr Hobbs was on the way to becoming Charles’ very own private God, a position to which no mere father could hope to aspire.

And Hoshi was in his arms, her head resting on his heart, which was slowing in the sea of utter contentment into which he was sinking – for once, without an ounce of dread of drowning.

After a moment, he turned his head to kiss her.  The backwash of the expanse of moonlight on the bare oak flooring showed him that her eyes were open, luminous, watching him.

“Malcolm,” she said, so low that even in the silence he could hardly hear her, “do you remember anything?”

“Remember anything from when, love?” He thought she must be asking about those last minutes aboard _Intrepid_.  Some of it had come back, but parts of it were still missing – for which he was grateful.  He was glad about the good news on Em’s progress, though; she was apparently making huge strides towards recovery under Hayes’ protective care.  If he and Hoshi weren’t invited to the wedding, there was bloody well going to be trouble.

“From ... from when you were in the hospital. I just wondered if you ... they talk about people having near-death experiences....”

He was silent, running the silk of her hair through his fingers.  It smelled delectably of pineapple.

“There was one thing,” he said at last. “I don’t know if was a dream.  I suppose it must have been – she couldn’t have been really there.”

“ ‘Her’?” she whispered.

Her fingers had been stroking lightly across his chest, but they stilled.

For a moment he wished he’d said nothing, but silence would have been deceit, and he was through with lies. So he went on, as steadily as he could, because there hadn’t been anything sexy about it or anything.  “I heard Jessa.”

“Your Jessa.”

“Well. My Jessa.” He frowned.  “I suppose it must have been her. She wasn’t talking English....” On those words, the first suspicion of the truth dawned on him, almost taking his breath away.

_“I love you.  I will always love you. Always, my beloved.”_ The voice didn’t have the throaty wood-pigeon note of Jessa’s, but the pronunciation was perfect.  Of course, a linguist would always have it perfect.

“You...”  His throat was perfectly dry, and he found he couldn’t go on.

He turned around to face her fully.  What she had done was ... was ... he couldn’t even formulate to _himself_ what it was.  But there had to be an explanation, and he waited for it.

“T'Pol performed a mind-meld between us,” she said evenly.  “You were dying, Malcolm.

“I could have coped with losing you, I could have coped with never seeing you again, but you ... you were just lying there.  I didn’t know if you were hanging on for us out of some sense of duty, or love, or what ... but you were just lying there. And I knew that wasn’t what you would have wanted, never.

“So if I couldn’t get you back, I wanted to help you let go.  I wanted to make it easy for you ... I wanted you to go to someone you loved.”

_Jessa._

He wanted to shake her till the teeth rattled in her head; he wanted to kiss her till she passed out for lack of oxygen.  Of all the stupidest, bravest, most selfless, most _idiotic_ stunts to have pulled...!

He grabbed her by the shoulders.  “Hoshi, if you e _ver..!”_

She didn’t move, though his grip was hard enough to hurt. “But you didn’t go,” she whispered.  “You said–”

Their voices said the words together.

_“And I you._

_But I loved her first. I love her now, more than I thought I could ever love anyone. I’m sorry._ ”

“Hoshi– Hoshi, love– she–”

“You loved her,” she said.  “I know you did. The more you tried to hide it, the more obvious it was.” She gazed up at him.  “I tried not to feel jealous, but ... From what you said, she must have been an amazing person.”

“She was,” he said, low-voiced.

“Malcolm, you ... we all deal with things the best way we can. Things just happen, and there’s nothing much we can do about it...”

He kissed her gently, stopping her from going any further. “Hush,” he whispered.  “You put down a marker and move on.  I know that, love.  You know that.  Let’s just leave it at that.”

Her fingers slid up the line of his scar. “I love you so much. I couldn’t blame you for loving someone else, someone that special, not in the circumstances – but it still hurt.”

Malcolm nodded silently. _Ditto._ He couldn’t have put it better himself.  Sometimes even now he had to remind himself that forgiveness is a continuous activity.

Hoshi took a deep breath.  “I want you to believe that I did what I did because I love you. I didn’t know if you’d hear ... I definitely didn’t expect you to answer.  And I didn’t know you loved me more than her.  But now I do.” 

His left hand still didn’t serve him properly.  Maybe physiotherapy would restore some of the use to the outer three fingers, but the chances were that he would never fully regain what he had lost.  Nevertheless, he used it to catch hers up, and held both of them raised before her face.

The gold band on the third finger of each gleamed coolly in the reflected moonlight.

“‘With this ring, I thee wed.’” His voice shook momentarily, remembering, and then steadied.  Once again he infused every word with its due and proper significance.

“‘With this ring, I give thee my body.

‘With this ring, I give thee my trust.

‘With this ring, I give thee my worship.

‘With this ring, I give thee my fidelity, _forsaking all others_ , till death do us part.’”

And with the last words, he gathered her into his arms, and they sank together into the ocean.

Far away, in the still woods under the moon, the owl called out one last time and then sailed away on silent wings into the darkness.

 

**THE END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are always hugely appreciated, pretty please!


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